Redemption and Revenge
by LLCoyote
Summary: Monroe's search for his son takes a dark turn into the depths of obsession when he captures a young woman who refuses to reveal his location. The hellish, inescapable connection they find themselves entangled in will cause them to question everything. What is madness? Where and how does it begin? How do you define family? What would you do for love? DARKFIC Monroe/OC
1. The Road to Suicide

**WHILE I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION! Lol, I'm looking for a beta reader, and I can't quite figure out how the sign up for them works on this site, so if anyone would like to explain that to me, or beta read for me it'd be great. I try to do it myself but my eyesight is deplorable and I speed read.**

**So I'm going to try my hand at a Revolution fic. If I have anyone who follows me as an author reading this, I apologize that my other story is not being written currently, nor will I pick it up any time soon. After my grandmother died I just lost the zeal to write it. I hope the same thing doesn't happen with this story, as I am putting my dog to sleep tomorrow.**

**Anyway, it probably says this in the description, this is a dark fic. There will be a lot of violence, abuse, and possibly rape in this story. This story will probably be a mixture of smut, plot, and angst/dark emotions. I'm going to apologize in advance that this chapter is… odd. I know it's choppy. The reason for that is that I wanted to at least quickly introduce you to how I think the world is after the blackout, and what Monroe's men are like. These soldiers probably won't be anything more than minor characters, so don't worry if you don't like them. Yes this is an OC story, but many of the characters will be cannon, and I'll try to stay true to who I think they are.**

**For the record, I think Monroe is… well… crazy. If he wasn't born crazy, Miles definitely drove him there. I really love Miles as a character but be forewarned I will probably be harsh on him in this story, and Monroe will be a pretty dark character for most if not all of the story. Alright, no more author's note. Read away.**

* * *

_"One day you will do things for me that you **hate**. That is what it means to be **family**."_

* * *

"Have you seen this boy?" How many times could the same damned question be asked? To how many people? In how many ways? And the answer was always "maybe"; probably because this damn sketch looked just like any other boy in the world. Those that didn't think he was some random Joe being hunted by the militia asked why the hell we'd go around asking if they knew where President Monroe was. Two months of this nonsense! Captain Max Watson had wasted two months of his life on something utterly useless. They'd never be able to find Monroe's son, especially not from a sketch, based off of vague memories of townspeople who would say they remembered anything to keep from getting arrested. But how could he tell that to the President? Monroe had been… less than stable since his failed attempt to turn the power back on. Actually… he'd started to lose it long before that. At least up until the last year he'd had the Matheson woman to, well… release his frustrations. But Rachel had fled with Miles and her family when it came to a fire fight between Neville, and the traitors that followed his command to rebel against President Monroe. The survivors of that battle, Watson's eldest son and a small handful of other men, had come home a few months ago. Monroe had immediately made his goals clear, invade Georgia and find his son. Max wanted nothing more than to be on the battle field with his fellow soldiers, but he was handpicked by Monroe for a special job. He'd never have suspected that is what the President had in mind when he walked through those doors.

* * *

It was well past midnight when they came for him. Five men, soldiers, pulled him out of bed roughly. "Oh my—please! Please don't hurt him! Maxwell what are they doing here?" Veronica had whispered, trying to keep her voice low and not wake their young daughter. _Stay asleep Sophie. If there is a God, don't let my child see this._ He told himself, making his gaze stony and passive. They allowed him a moment with Veronica, only a short one, but enough for him to encourage her to be quiet, to be calm. "I've always been a good soldier dear. If these men say they need to… talk, well I'm sure it's fine." What a horrible lie it was. He could lie to anyone but his wife. She slipped her fingers around his arm tightly, a look of panic in her lovely green eyes. "Sophie is going to start piano lessons tomorrow isn't she? With Mrs. Carter. She's so excited to learn to play. Make sure you remember everything that happens in case I can't get back in time." He'd pleaded. If Veronica would just think about Sophie, it'd be ok. His wife nodded, still shaking madly, and Max kissed her head gently. "I love you. You and the kids, you're everything to me." He whispered softly, straightening himself and heading for the door without looking back.

It was a remarkably light evening in Philadelphia, the sky was clear of clouds and the moon was bright over the earth. Which meant only a single man carried a torch. Max couldn't tell who he was because of the flare of the fire, and the distance that separated the lone rider from the group. All he could see was a man's shadow swaying with the motion of his horse as it lazily clopped forward. It unsettled him, not being able to see the man's face. He took little to no comfort in the fact that he knew most of these men... but it was better than them being shades in the darkness. Max recited their names in his head: Gregory Hanes, Lucas Greene, and Warren Cramer. He stared hard at each one of them. Hell, he'd practically grown up with Warren! They had lived a block away from each other. They played on a football team in fucking high school before the blackout! His burning gaze turned to the next one. A year ago he'd saved Greene's life from a rebel bombing! He'd doubled back to literally pull Greene's bloody, unconscious body from the ruble and carried him half a mile on his own back to where his horse was tethered. And the Hanes boy? His hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking as he looked over. Max had trained him for Pete's sake! He had been the one to instill loyalty and faith in the militia and even in general Monroe himself to that boy. _"Anything we do that's bad, we do it as the lesser of two evils. For order and for the safety of these people we take life into our own hands."_ Those were his words of wisdom, departed to a boy who was thinking of running from Monroe's army (which would have gotten him corporal punishment). His eyes turned away, it made him physically ill to think of this betrayal. He didn't know who the fourth one was, and couldn't see the horse rider in front but now that he had thought about that, he was glad. This was painful enough. Walking silently, awkwardly, beside your friends as they lead you to your death? Perhaps Monroe had gone from paranoid to downright malicious.

Either everyone was hiding from them as they walked the desolate streets or Monroe had finally got around to enforcing a city wide curfew. Whichever it was, they were alone in the night. There was a small bite to the air; winter was coming a little early this year. He hadn't had time to get properly dressed and he hoped the night wouldn't get any colder than it was. It was another 30 maybe even 45 minutes walk to Monroe's home. He wouldn't know, if he reached into his pocket for his watch he'd probably be shot. Obediently Max march forward, even if he happened to be marching to his death. He greatly respected Monroe though, and tried to think more optimistically… which didn't work. Why else would someone drag a man out of his bed in the middle of the night if not to kill him quietly, under the cover of darkness?

The candlelit rooms of the grand Independence Hall were warm and deceptively inviting. They coaxed him further into their labyrinth of shadow rooms where blood was so often spilt with well painted walls and glistening hardwood floors, glowing in the light of burning candles. It was just the four of them by the time they entered the building. Their guide through town (the one on horseback) had continued to ride off into the dark abyss of the streets without changing pace or even bothering with a backward glance and as his torch flickered out in the night, it was like he'd never really been there at all. Maxwell shook his head and tried to steady himself, his mind was starting to play some rather ugly tricks on him. _Focus on moving forward. Focus on the sound of boots against wood and murmuring voices in rooms beyond. Focus on anything, just focus, so that you don't fall prey to superstition and paranoia. _He pleaded with himself, trying to stay both sharp and calm at the same time. It hardly worked; he didn't notice the double doors to Monroe's office getting closer until he was close enough to kiss them. He nearly walked straight into the one on the right. It was the Hanes boy who stopped and steadied him, daring to show obvious concern on his face in front of the others.

The doors swung open to reveal the dimly lit office, and the silhouette of Monroe against the far wall. He was leaning with both arms extended against the mantle of the fire place, his head so low it looked as though it weren't there at all. The room reeked of booze. There was a broken bottle of… something (he couldn't tell in this dreadful darkness) splattered on the floor. The liquor was making an odd stain on the floor, much darker than they type it usually does and there was an awful lot of it. "You will take care won't you?" Monroe said in a soft, raspy voice, "No one had time to clean up before you arrived. Those house shoes are thin; I wouldn't want anything to soak through." Max chanced a glance downward. Defiantly not just booze. A large pool of blood was soaking into the cracks and crannies of the wood. "Of course sir." He'd replied, side stepping the puddle awkwardly. The doors made an almost inaudible click behind him as the guards filed out and left him alone with Monroe.

General Monroe slowly raised his head, like a zombie from the grave, and turned to face Max. Even in the darkness it was easy to tell how spent Monroe was, not to mention how drunk he was. "I apologize about the time but the matter of your business here is **very** private. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you too much." Watson was amazed, even when the General was clearly drunk as a sailor off the boat; his words were so polite and charming. The man so rarely shouted, or told you outright what was happening which made him all the more terrifying. Careful to avoid offending him (which was no easy task) Max met his intense gaze, "A private meeting with you could never be seen as anything but an honor sir." Monroe practically sorted under his breath, a snort that twisted into an insane, wheezing, sarcastic laughter. It was like hearing someone laugh bitterly, only as a whisper. Whatever got him laughing disappeared as quickly as it'd come, and he lapsed into silence for a long time. His blue eyes stared intensely into those of his soldier's. "You're being promoted Max. As of this moment, you're a captain in the Monroe militia, I'm going to give you 25 men, and you're going to do a very important job for me… quietly." The general said slowly, pouring himself another glass of liquor. After sloppily filling his own cup Monroe raised his brows and tilted the bottle toward Max. He understood the offer and it probably wasn't the best idea to reject Monroe's generosity, but he declined the drink. "So you're one of those people?" The general mumbled to himself much louder than he intended to. He continued conversing (actually it looked more like arguing) with himself for the better part of the next few minutes.

"Sir, I don't mean any disrespect, but I'd prefer to have a clear head whilst you explain my assignment." Max stood stiff as a board, not even looking towards the general, for fear in his drunken stupor Monroe may have taken offence. "You have kids right Mr. Watson?" Monroe said lowly. The younger man slumped into a chair behind his desk with a loud, uncomfortable thump. Max doubted that he felt it at all; there was far too much alcohol in him to feel much of anything. At the mention of his children, he couldn't stop himself from shivering and clenching his teeth in fury. Was that a threat? His heart was beating so hard against his chest it hurt. Maxwell cleared his suddenly dry, sore throat, "A little girl and two teen boys sir." The room lapsed into a long silence. There was only the crack of the fire as it greedily chomped at the burning wood in the hearth. Monroe seemed stuck between angry and miserable, downing the rest of his drink in a single gulp. After a long sigh the general sat up straight in his seat and a determined, slightly deranged look, passed through his eyes, "Well I have a son… and you're going to be the one to find him for me."

* * *

Maxwell cursed the memory. He cursed his immediate compliance and that stupid notion that this would be a quick, simple job. Two months had passed since that night. He was given supplies, including clothes, and was only allowed a moment to assure his wife he hadn't been murdered in cold blood. She'd fought back the tears and pretended to smile as he'd been marched away. Veronica had always been remarkably strong and capable but everything had been taking a toll on her lately… he worried about what happened to her now that he was gone. Monroe would protect her wouldn't he? Max wouldn't know, he wasn't allowed to have even a single letter communication with anyone inside Philly, even the general himself. "This is highly sensitive information. Information I don't want to be used against me." Monroe had said. Maxwell swallowed his bitter chuckle; as if anyone could use Monroe's child against him. As if the man would actually try to save his kid's life if it meant giving up even the slightest bit of power. Two months, and what was once a healthy fear and a great amount of respect for his leader had soured into disgust and anger. Monroe was losing his mind and if something didn't give soon, the republic was going to go down the drain.

"Sir! Captain Watson sir, open the door!" Hanes shouted from the other side of the cheap door to his room. Two days ago they'd bunked down here two days ago. An elderly woman had offered them (Hanes, Greene and himself) a place to stay in her large old home. His troupes were at least a day's ride away. Why Monroe had sent him on an assignment with 22 men that weren't permitted to know any details about their job was far beyond Maxwell. The general said it was for safety that the men were to come and that no one but he and his friends knew the details of the mission… it turned out to just be a giant pain in the ass. He, Hanes and Greene had ridden ahead a few days ago to work in some peace and quiet. Cramer stayed behind to try and maintain some semblance of control in the camp. Personally Maxwell hoped he'd fail, and the troupes would revolt against him and run away. Then maybe the four of them could get something done without having to constantly leave a man behind to baby sit.

"It's past eleven o'clock boy. If we ain't under attack by rebels and you ain't dyin', I'm gonna kill you." Max growled under his breath, jerking the door open so quickly Hanes almost punched him while trying to knock. Awkwardly the boy cleared his throat, gave a nervous laugh and dropped his fist to his side, "I—I know it's late sir, but Greene just got back. He says he's got some great news. Wouldn't tell me anything about it though, he just drug his hostage down into the cellar and told me to get you as fast as I could. And I—sir wait! Don't leave me here!" Maxwell shot down the stairs with amazing speed, like a race horse shooting violently from the gate. "Then don't dawdle boy!" He shouted over his shoulder, barely heard over the thundering noise of his boots on the hardwood. The living room was well lit from candles and in the corner; Mrs. Beverly was hunched back against her chair, wide eyed and frightened. Maxwell seized the boy's arm as he made a B-line for the cellar door. "Settle her down would you?" He whispered as he jabbed a thumb back toward the poor old woman. He really shouldn't think of her as that old, what did she have on him? Ten, maybe fifteen years? Max shook it off and drew a breath to calm his excited nerves. This was the first lead they'd had since they left Jasper with the rough sketch of the boy. It was hard to bury the urge to squeal like a little girl and get his hopes up. He wanted to go home, he wanted to see his family, and he wanted to quit traveling. God have mercy on this man's soul if he didn't have anything useful to tell him. Maxwell knew that Greene didn't have much patience left and while he wouldn't murder a man for knowing nothing… Greene just might. He descended the stairs into the dimly light cellar. It was like an ice box by the time he set foot on the ground. Max shrugged it off and strolled in behind Zack, who was currently tightening the bonds of a rugged drunkard of a man. The man reeked of alcohol, his clothes were stained with his own filth, and his eyes were blood shot. A bad feeling set in the pit of his stomach that this was going to get nasty.

"Who the hell is this?" Max said carelessly. He grabbed his flask from the inside pocket of his coat and took a large swig to warm himself. Zackary, who was furious and bloody, glared up at his friend, "He knows something!" Noticing the odd stare Max was giving him he added, "The bastard tried to jump me with a knife in the alley." Watson raised his eye brows slightly, holding in a chuckle by clearing his throat, "And why do you think he knows something?" "I was riding through his little shit hole of a town, asking a few questions when I came across this one and his friend. When I showed them the sketch, he started to say something and his friend shut him up! I waited around for the guy to leave, and thought if I got the bastard drunk he'd tell me something. Instead he tried to stab me in the spleen!" His friend practically shouted, punching 'the bastard' (as he'd been dubbed thus far) in the face so hard that the man coughed blood against his gag. "You've had a long day Zack. I got this." Max whispered; his hand rested on his friend's shoulder. Greene eyed him skeptically and then shrugged, mumbling something about catching some rest on the couch.

Max turned to look at the stout man, tied tight as a knot against his chair. There was fear in his blood shot eyes. "Alright then, it looks to me like you've got two choices. You tell me what you know," Max paused and flicked open his pocket knife, "Or I start ripping off your finger nails… for starters." Roughly he tore the gag away from the man's face. The ride to the house, and his rushing adrenaline were sobering him up enough to talk. The man looked scared, horrified even. "Please! I don't want any trouble. I don't know anything about anything!" He said shaking his head. Max rolled his eyes. Why did they always say that? Why did they always lie? Annoyed, he brought his fist down on the man's face three times. With the final blow, he heard the nose crack. Blood dribbled out, running down his lips and into his mouth. The bastard didn't even bother to spit it out.

Maxwell panted roughly before straightening his coat; the cold was starting feel like little knives pressing against his lungs as he drew his breath. He glared at the man, leaning back against the wall and in a bored tone he resumed focusing on the task at hand, "Now… I'm gonna give you one more chance to tell the truth, so listen closely. You see that drawing on the wall? You're gonna tell me who that is and where I can find them!" Frantically the man shook his head harder, clamping his lips together and squeezing his eyes shut. "Fine by me." Max grunted. He seized the man by his hand and pressed the knife tip below his finger nail. The blade sunk it and blood oozed around it, dripping down onto the floor, staining the grey cement a dark red. He was always amazed at how easily a sharp point slid into the skin. It shouldn't be this physically easy to torture another human being, especially when emotionally; he may as well be trying to stab a bolder. This isn't what he signed up for, this isn't what he wanted to do. _Breathe in. Count back from five. _Max tried to calm his nerves. He should have waited until morning when he wasn't so tired to do this. _Five. _The knife tip sunk into the skin past the cuticle. Screams echoed off the stone walls. _Four. _He gripped the blade in his numb fingers, watching the droplets of blood that had landed on them. _Three. _Max matched eyes with the man, offering him one more chance to end this. _Two. _He swallowed his morality. If he couldn't find Monroe's boy, he'd never see his own children again. _**One. **_The blade twisted and wretched the remaining nail out of its bed in one fluid motion. The man screamed, jerking and fighting in his restraints. Max went straight for the next one, making sure to insert the knife slowly, so that the agony couldn't be avoided. His steely blue eyes didn't reveal his disgust. His face was covered in a hard frown.

About half way through the third nail the man howled and begged him to stop. "I'll tell you anything I can! Please! Just don't kill me! I just want to go back home." He pleaded, tears running down his face. The man was still partially intoxicated but Max pulled the knife away. He tore the picture from the wall and shoved it right into the man's face, "Do you know him or not?!" "YES! I… at least I'm pretty sure that's him." The man moaned, his head lolling to the side. For a second Maxwell thought his heart might give out. He actually might know who Monroe's son was! Desperately Max took him by the collar of his tattered coat, "What's his name?! Where is he?! Is he close?!" The man strangled and jerked himself away, nearly toppling over his chair to the frozen cement. "Whoa whoa, one at a time! I… I don't know his name… and I don't exactly know where he is." He said with a wince. Max went back to his discarded knife and scooped it up from the floor in fury. "Do you actually know anything?" He almost shouted, taking hold of the man's bloody, twitching hand. "I think so! It's a vague drawing! NO! NO please! He sometimes runs with Little Lilly down at the harbor! Not often though, maybe once a year we see 'em." The man said without pausing for air. His shoulders relaxed visibly as Max lowered the knife once more. "Who's—" "Little Lilly? The young lady that appears at the docks down by Penobscot once, maybe twice a year. She lingers for a couple of weeks, everyone knows her. I've seen that man with her once or twice." He said shakily, muttering something else that sounded like a prayer beneath his breath. "Why didn't you just tell me that before I ripped your nails off!?" Watson snarled, shaking the paper in his face.

"Cause he's a witch! I didn't want to live with a curse over my head!" The man shouted back, terror in his eyes, "But it's hopeless now! I'll be damned for telling you about him I'm sure!" It took every bit of strength Max had not to stab the man. Did he just say? "I'm sorry but, do you think I'm stupid enough to believe this bullshi—" "SHHH! Don't insult them! The spirits will tell them what you say!"The man shouted loudly, so that Max's voice couldn't be heard. Great. They finally get a lead, and the guy is bat shit crazy. "And the girl. This… Little Lilly let me guess… she's a witch too? No! A fairy princess!" Max replied with wiggling fingers and a roll of his eyes. "Doom! You bring death and despair upon us both with your insults! Everyone knows Lilly is a ghost." He cried desperately.

This wasn't going to go anywhere productive, Max was sure he'd gotten everything that he could out of this man. Before the poor creature could process what was happening, Watson pulled his gun and shot him clean between the eyes. Blood and brain matter sprayed, and the now dead man's head fell back lifelessly, eyes wide and mouth partly agape. Normally Max wasn't one for just murdering someone for no reason, but something told him this man was better off on the other side. He tiredly trudged up the stairs and pulled open the door. Everyone, including Mrs. Beverly was watching him with curious eyes. "He's nuts… or at least he was nuts. Hanes go clean that up." Max groaned, flopping gracelessly into a plush red armchair. It was faded and worn, but comforting to his sore and tired body. Mrs. Beverly took a tea kettle from the fire and poured him a steaming cup that was too warm and inviting to resist. The sweet liquid gave a welcomed burn to his cold throat. "You didn't get anything out of the bastard?" Greene bitched from the couch. "Yeah a deranged ghost story about some girl called Little Lilly who appears at the Penobscot bay once a year. Apparently she is a ghost, and Monroe's son is the conjurer." Max moaned, he felt embarrassed just telling the story. Greene burst out laughing so hard he had to grab his side. Max buried his face in the crook of his arm, "I hope you piss yourself."

"I know about Little Lilly." Mrs. Beverly said quietly as she stared at the flames of her dying fireplace. Greene shut up immediately and glared at her. "Not you too." Max laughed, throwing his hands in the air. The old woman pursed her lips, "My late husband was a sailor before he passed away. A few years before he died rumors started to go around the docks. A young lady with red hair would appear and disappear just as quickly. Talk started going around that since no one talked to her, and no one could catch up to her that she had to be a ghost. They believed she must be spirit of a young woman whose husband never returned from sea after the blackout and every year she returns to search for him…" She paused and smiled to herself, as though she'd just heard a great joke, "You know how sailors are and the blackout didn't help them ease their superstitions." "So… you really believe there is a ghost girl running around the docks?" Greene said slowly, trying not to laugh at her. Mrs. Beverly shook her head firmly, "Of course not. Not only is there no such thing, Frank, my husband, assured me that she was very real. Said he'd sold her enough rum—that's what he did you see he sailed to the Caribbean to bring back rum and coffee and such—anyway he said that he snuck out of his cabin late one night and she offered him gold. He said she ran off with enough rum and coffee to fill a wagon and a half in exchange. He could have been exaggerating. No one drinks that much. My husband had a weakness for inflammatory words and all that. I didn't think much of it at the time; in fact I didn't believe him until a year ago when I saw her on my way down river. I thought it was just a story Frank used to give me the willies." She stopped again and tapped her finger to her chin in thought, "I was taking his ashes down to the bay to release them when I was jumped by a bunch of men. Then there were dogs, at least 9 of them… maybe more. Dogs and dogs and dogs, bounding from the bushes with great big teeth, snarling like hell hounds. They jumped the men and pulled them to the ground. Just as I was sure I was going to have to witness them being eaten alive, she rode in on a chestnut horse and shot the ruffians one by one. We only talked for a moment, but she looked just like the girl in his story. Short, long curly red hair, grey eyes. Strange looking girl if you ask me. I think she'd been looking for me. She kept looking at the bag where I had his ashes kept." She finished; then poured herself another cup of tea.

"Why the hell didn't you tell us this yesterday?!" Greene shouted. He swung his legs down from the arm of the couch angrily and stood up. Mrs. Beverly looked confused, "Because you didn't ask me anything about her. My husband's been dead for a couple of years now, that may explain why, but I've never heard anything about this boy." Her face scrunched up defensively as she glared at Greene over her glasses. The two stared one another down for what felt like an eternity before Max cleared his throat to break the tension. "Please Mrs. Beverly… tell me you know where you can find this girl."

They left for Penobscot bay right before first light; traveling by horseback through the knee high deep snow. No one spoke. The only noise on the white path they rode down was that of their own horses chewing on their bits or rattling their saddle bags. Every now and again one of them would blow a great gust of silver cloud into the frigid air, like little equine dragons with smoke in their bellies. Dawn's light, when it finally came, was relentlessly bright against the ivory blanket that covered the earth. Max missed the days when you could run and jump in your car to blast the heat and escape the cold. He missed sunglasses that could so easily shade your eyes in glaring light. He missed life before the blackout... on days like these more than any others. Why couldn't they be looking for Monroe's boy in Georgia territory? How the hell did he even get here anyway? From Indiana to Maine. No one even lived in Maine any more. Max snorted to himself, leaning back in his saddle. After the blackout people fled for warmer, more predictable climates, and those that didn't run south right away did their damnedest to escape when New York rose up against them. An insane cult, claiming to be lead by God, had taken over NY State and had started slaughtering people in the surrounding areas. Who they couldn't convert they killed. Vermont, and parts of new Hampshire fell before they moved into Maine. The Monroe republic didn't need to conquer Connecticut or any other state east of New York (aside from New Hampshire), for the most part, they'd come begging for help.

Help was a funny word nowadays. Used to be people just helped other people because it was the right thing to do, at least it seemed that way to Max. Now help always comes with a price. Monroe's (actually at the time it was Matheson's) price was to be paid in lives and land. There was a major (and mandatory) drafting of able bodied men and women to fight for the republic. With the extra men and with Miles Matheson, New York fell in only a matter of weeks. In a few short months the Monroe republic claimed all of New England and parts of Canada. All of this… disaster had left Maine one giant ghost town. Two years ago Monroe did a census of the people here, most of them at least and barely managed to scrape up 9,000 people in the two remaining cities: Portland, and Belfast. Over 5,000 of those people were sailors, or some sort of boatmen who had taken up the extremely difficult task of building a working fleet of ships and opening up a trade route with Cuba, the Dominican Republic (which was called something else now, Max couldn't remember what), and Central America. The country side of Maine was barren of human life.

Animal life however was abundant. Bears and wolves were common sites. Mountain lions and lynxes were harder to spot, but just as dangerous and maybe even more. Particularly, Max feared the wolverines. He'd never seen one before the blackout, even on hunting trips, but their numbers had been steadily growing. They'd already seen one this morning. There wasn't anything that made wolverines more dangerous than bears or especially mountain lions but there was something about them. In some strange way they were the beasts of the blackout, like the hounds of hell, rising up from the ashes of civilization and reclaiming a wilderness that had once belonged to them for thousands of years. Dogs that was another thing to look out for here. Dogs and other pets, even some of the exotic pets had managed to survive. Though tigers and African lions were usually more of a problem in Texas (where they were as common as field mince) many states in the Monroe republic had once allowed zoos and private owners to keep them. The zoo animals had mostly been killed for food, private pet owners were far too sentimental to make tiger stakes and had released them into the wild... some even fed themselves to their monstrous felines before releasing them, to ensure their survival. Max had only ever come across one before, a large female lion in Ohio, and he'd nearly shit himself. There is nothing, absolutely **nothing**, more horrifying than a lion's roar. It doesn't matter what gun is in your fucking hand; that awful and powerful noise speaks to your primal, instinctive self and sends terror up your spine.

The ride from Mrs. Beverly's house near what used to be Clinton, to the city of Belfast took them the whole day. Apparently any time people talked about Penobscot bay anymore, they were referring to the fishing and trading city of Belfast. This was where they would search for a mythical ghost girl in hopes that she would lead them to a supposed witch, who happened to be Monroe's son. Max suppressed a groan for the billionth time today, "When the hell did our jobs get so fuckin' ridiculous?" It wasn't meant for the others to hear, but he heard them snicker all the same. "I think we should go over some protocol." Greene said, trotting his horse up to the front where Max and Hanes currently rode, "If there is you know… something strange, in the neighborhood… who are you going to call Max?" "Shut the hell up." Watson snarled in response, "Hanes ain't even old enough to remember shit like that." It was hopeless though, Zack burst out laughing so hard at his own joke he doubled over on his horse. Hanes took a foot from his stirrup and kicked him in the thigh, "We're here on militia business. Who's going to take your seriously if you're crumpled up like a drunk in your saddle?" Max nodded in agreement, but didn't pay them any real attention.

The streets were scarcely populated and the people that saw them didn't look too happy about it. Many of them ran to hide, others gawked, and some brave ones (mostly older, toughened sailor types) glared at them as they rode down the snowy streets. Max bobbed his head at a middle-aged woman with three kids in tow, "Excuse me miss." She pulled her children behind her and cowered. Her slender arms covered her dirty face, her knees wobbled, and her mouth shook. "I don't want your trouble," She called out, as though they were very far away, "I—I only want to go home." Maxwell glared over at the other two, who easily took his silent hint—leave. They abruptly turned their horses away and rode further into the darkening streets, murmuring quietly to one another. He turned his attention back to the woman, who seemed less tense but nowhere near relaxed. "No trouble, I promise. All I want is to ask you a question," He said with a charming smile. His hand reaching for the sketch in his pocket made the woman flinch, "Do you know who this boy is?... And no, damn it, it's not President Monroe." She thought about it for a second, pursing her lips and looking the paper over thoroughly, "No sir, I'm afraid I've never seen him before." Max sighed, he couldn't believe he was about to ask this. "What about a girl… Red hair, short, ummm goes by the name of Little Lilly." He asked, too embarrassed to look at her as he did so. "Of course I know who Lilly is. I've never seen her myself—but, but ask the sailors down at the docks! Please that's all I know!"

He'd left her at that, scolding her about having her children out so late as he rode away. Hanes and Greene didn't catch up with him until the next day down by the docks. Aside from the same farfetched ghost stories he'd gotten, there was nothing to tell. They found a tattered, shit hole of an inn and put their horses in the barn. It was as good as a 'home base' as they were going to get here. For the most part, they traveled on foot, unless they were going further into the outer parts of the city. Once or twice they took a boat out to an island in the bay where supposedly the girl had been seen several times, but that turned up sour. Greene wouldn't quit complaining about the smell of fish and how he would probably have that smell in his nostrils for the rest of his life. Hanes didn't seem to care much; he had more issues with the sailors. On his own they didn't take him seriously. What was a 20 something year old, lanky, loner solider going to do to theses hardened, ruthless seamen in their late 30's and 40's? Max ignored everything, focusing his complete attention on the task at hand, and not his aching joints in the cold. It wasn't until the fifth day that they had any promising results. Hanes had galloped back to the hotel after dark, pale in the face, and said he'd seen her. She'd disappeared before he could get to her, but it was certainly her. Then he said something crazy about believing she was a ghost, Greene smacked him over the head for being superstitious and that was the end of it.

It was on the ninth day they found her. She was sitting on an empty dock in the outskirts of the city. Behind her was a beautiful chestnut mare, which pinned her ears and began to paw as they approached. But the girl didn't run, she didn't disappear, she didn't dive into the water, she just watched them come. Finally, someone who understands the concept of being cornered. "Are you the spirit of Little Lilly!?" Hanes shouted, only to receive another hard punch to the head from Greene that was paired with a 'shut up'. The young girl smiled and actually laughed. Her arms crossed over her breasts casually, watching the soldiers with glimmering eyes, "There are no such things as spirits." Her voice was low, and lacked any shrillness or alarm. It was almost melodic, even though her words were a bit slurred. The fact that she was so calm and normal was more unnerving than anything. Max rode forward, despite the angry squeal her mare sounded as he got closer, "Ma'am we need to know if you know this man." He held out the picture for her to see, only to hear her laugh again. "Sure I do. SJ may as well be my own flesh and blood. I guess you could say he's… my brother." She said languidly. Her arm flew around beside her to snatch a bottle of… something that she'd been working on for a while. Through the mist Max could see the red blush of intoxication heating up her face. Shock far outweighed excitement for him. Was this really it? After months of searching? No fight to the death, no gun fire, no screaming or lies? Was this climactic moment really just this _simple_? He was almost let down.

"Please, tell us where we can find him. We have orders from President Monroe himself to bring him back to the capital." Max said as he stuffed the picture sloppily into his pocket. The girl did not look impressed, "Hmmm, yes, I don't really see that happening, love. If my brother wanted to go to the capital, he'd already have gone." Greene cleared his throat awkwardly, "You realize if you don't tell us it will be considered a court martial offense. You'll be killed." She perked up her eyebrow at him, "Alright, shoot me. I won't even draw my gun." "Citizens of the Monroe republic aren't allowed to carry arms!" Hanes butt in. "What does it matter, I thought you were going to kill me?" She said, tensing up and refusing to look at him. It was the first time Max had seen her show any sign of discomfort, he kept that in mind for later. "Grab the mare." He snapped over his shoulder, dismounting in one swift motion. Laugher again. "Bad idea boys. Rory's not too fond of strangers." She warned, not fussing as Max roughly pulled her up by the arm. Greene and Hanes both pulled ropes from their saddle bags and looped them around the mare's neck. It squealed and in a flash of red, turned on its front end to kick Greene's horse. He maintained amazing control as he pulled his horse, even while rearing, to a safe distance from the obstinate red beast. That should have been a sign, this was too easy and beneath the calm exterior laid trouble, but Max was far too caught up in the joy of finding her and the rage of her denying him answers he didn't think about it. "In the name of the Monroe Republic, you're under arrest miss." He snarled, snapped her hands into cuffs behind her back before hoisting her on top of his own horse. Still, she didn't put up a fight.

It took nearly half an hour to get her mare in a halter. Greene had been the brave and stubborn one to do it (Max had begged him to just let the stupid thing go), and as a result he now had a huge bloody bite mark and a broken left hand. Once the beast was haltered, and affixed with multiple ropes to keep her from reaching any of them in an attack, they were off. Instead of going back to the inn, Max sent out letters to his camp and to Monroe, breaking the silence between them. He hoped and prayed Monroe would want to see her himself, that he'd be the one to torture a woman, because Max didn't have it in himself to do such a disgusting thing. She refused to speak and the more sober she became the more silent she was. Silent and tense. She didn't seem afraid per say or angry, just tense. Max couldn't actually tell what was going on beneath the mass of dark red curls on her head. It took a few days to reach his camp. To his disappointment there was no word from Monroe yet… and he would have to start doing something besides ignoring the girl sooner or later. The scene at the dock kept playing through his mind, as well as a few sparse instances where she'd said something to them on the way here. One thing was certain, Hanes made her uncomfortable, and Max decided to start there.

"You tie her up to a chair or a post or… something, in that tent over there. Search her over again, this time take any personal belongings." He demanded pointing to one of the larger tents in the middle of the camp. Hanes immediately obeyed and pulled the quiet woman to the tent with a nervous glance behind him.

* * *

Greg Hanes grew up in the blackout. He was only a child when it happened, and his limited memories of that time were mostly repressed and buried by the horrors of what happened after the lights went out. Torture, death, war, these weren't new concepts to him. After all he was only 14 when he'd been enlisted in Monroe's army… but he'd never had to torture anyone before. Killed? Sure he'd killed many people, so many that he no longer kept count. Not to say killing was a guiltless crime, while the number has been long since forgotten, Gregory remembered every face of every life he'd ever taken but… torture was different wasn't it? When you killed someone the formula was simple. You take a gun or a knife, hit them in the heart, or any vital organ, sometimes you even go for the head, some scream, but they all go down and in a matter of minutes their eyes loose that glint of light in them as life is lost and they're thrown into eternal darkness. Sad, terrible, harsh, but in self defense or in the defense of good people it really wasn't a hard decision to make.

The problem with torture is you're just too close to the person; they hang on too long. You aren't going to kill them; that is sort of the point. Your only job is to hurt them, to crush their soul until they give up what is most likely the most precious thing they have anymore; information on someone they love or something they stand for. Needless to say Gregory wasn't looking forward to this next development in his career. Why wouldn't she at least put up a fight? Swear at him, try and hit him, try to escape, ANYTHING but just letting him shove her into the tent and taking what was given to her. Her compliance didn't make it easier, it made it worse. Even anger wasn't there to comfort him in this ruthless act.

She stood still as he ran his hands over her small, curvy legs and hips, even when he searched her upper body. No weapons, but he did take two lockets from her, a flask of what smelled like strong whiskey and a wad of militia dollars from a hidden compartment in her jacket. There was gunk inside of the lockets, but it they were made of nice gold so he shoved it in his pocket anyway. He reached for a large metal band on her arm. It was at least 5 inches thick, and fit her forearm snugly. "That doesn't come off." She said slowly, refusing to look his way. He grabbed it anyway and gave it a tug, "I have orders to confiscate all valuables mi—" "Ow damn it! I told you it doesn't come off! It is fixed to my arm you dolt!" She hissed as he pulled harder. A little blood trickled out of the bottom of the band near her elbow. The woman looked from the blood to him and scowled, "There are prongs inside of it, and they're embedded deeply in my flesh I am telling you it **will **_**not **_come off I've tried!" Greg looked at her strangely, poking and prodding at the skin of her wrist, trying to see further into the large band, "Why would you…" "I've had it for a long time… and I would prefer not to talk about it thank you." She snipped, turning her head away once again. There was a faint accent to her voice, European of some sort, maybe Irish or Scottish. It showed more prominently when she was annoyed.

He left the band alone; Captain Watson could deal with it later. Right now he needed to think of what he could do to make her talk. Trying to not look nervous he turned his back to her and looked around the room. They'd already prepared for his arrival, setting an array of tools (some of which he didn't even know how to use) on a table in the corner. He roughly pulled a chair out and used lengths of rope to tie her tightly against the wood. She said nothing, but he was starting to see fear flicker in her eyes. _Yes, please be afraid. Please talk before I have to do this! _He thought, taking a breath to calm his nerves. Why wasn't Greene the one torturing her? Or Cramer! Greene didn't care about gutting someone, and Cramer practically liked it! "Tell me what you know about the boy from the drawing." He demanded, staring at the torture implements. He was blocking her view, with his back toward her. "Hmm, sorry, I'm going to have to say… no." She answered smartly. Hanes tried to summon his anger and let go of his guilt. He pulled the table of torture implements in front of her and watched as she looked down at them. She looked scared, but Hanes wasn't sure if she really was. He wasn't sure of anything really, reading a person wasn't his strong suit. Oh he was the worst person in the world for this job!

"Maybe you want to change your answer," He said as he reached for a random tool and showed it to her, "But if you talk now, I will let you go. We'll give you your horse back, we'll even forget about the gun, and you can run back to wherever it is you came from. No one has to get hurt." Something flashed through her eyes but he didn't have a clue what it was and it disappeared in a split second. "Yes actually, yes they do." She said quietly, and then closed her eyes. Hanes swiftly turned and exited the tent… he just couldn't do this.

* * *

The letter from Monroe came a full three days after they had all arrived in camp and the girl still wasn't speaking. Furious at his refusal to torture the woman, Greene had tried it himself and insisted that Hanes sleep inside of the tent with her to make sure she didn't get away. Hanes was getting… strange though. "It's that creepy voodoo singing." Cramer said noticing Max's 'lost in thought' face, "He never shuts her up; just lets her sing all night. It's freaking him out." Max shoved a bite of bread into his mouth and grunted, "He told me the morning after he first slept in her tent, that he knew her. I asked him how; he says he doesn't remember… I don't believe him." He held up the letter from Monroe and waved it, "Not that it matters now. General Monroe wants her brought back to Philly so that he can have a crack at her I guess." Cramer rudely snatched the letter from his hand, eyeing the seal, "When does he want her there?" "Last week." Max answered with a sarcastic laugh. Monroe was a million things, patient wasn't one of them.

"No! Listen don't do this! PLEASE someone help!" The girl's voice blared out of the tent from behind them, startling Max and nearly causing him to spill his coffee. "HELP! HELP DAMN IT!" He'd never heard her scream like that… what the hell was that boy doing to her? Cramer jerked his arm as he went to stand, and waved a reassuring hand to the few stray men around camp that were becoming concerned. "The kid is finally growing a back bone and you're going to go busting in and crap on everything he's done?" He growled, physically shoving Max back into the chair. Max pulled his arm free, "No but if he kills—" **BANG**. A gun cracked inside the tent, followed by an ear splitting scream. Both men leaped from their chairs and headed for the tent flap. Max jerked it to one side and ran in, tripping over something in his haste. "Holy fuck…" He heard Cramer whisper, "Max get the fuck up!" There was a rattling of chains and a sharp cry.

Max shook his head and pushed himself off of the floor. The first thing he saw was the woman, still chained tightly to her chair, sobbing. Her head was shaking frantically and she was on the verge of hyperventilating. "Shut up!" Cramer shouted over her before ripping a piece of his coat and cramming it in her mouth. "Max damn it!" He shouted, pointing to Max's feet. It took everything in him not to cry out, not to vomit. Hanes lay dead on the ground, with a gun in his hand and a bullet hole in his head. His blood splattered and pooled on the ground below his head. His wide, lifeless eyes were bloodshot and tear stains reddened the skin beneath his eyes. The sound of gagging brought Max back to reality… at least partially. "Fuck Cramer she's choking! Get that thing out of her mouth!" He ordered harshly even as he was diving to jerk the cloth from her throat anyway. She gasped for air, crying uncontrollably, "I told him not to do it! I begged him! Why didn't you come?! Why didn't you help?!" In the days they'd had her, Max had only once heard her scream like this and that was when Cramer was beating her bare foot with a wooden board. He grasped her shoulders and shook her but the girl was hysterical. At some point, a medic had run into the tent, and had begun to check for any signs of life from Hanes, but it was clearly hopeless. Max couldn't think, especially not with the girl freaking out. She started to thrash in her bonds, screaming about how they were all loony and having to escape before they kill her.

Already sporting some nasty cuts and a broken foot from interrogation, Max knew it wouldn't take much of that crazed struggling for her to seriously injure herself. He whacked the medic over the head, "Damn it! Sedate her! I don't give a damn how you do it! Before she has a fucking heart attack!" Terrified at Max's out of character screaming, the medic practically pounced on the girl. He made gentle, reassuring shushing sounds as he dug through his bag for the right drugs. Max never removed his hands from her shoulders. "Do you want her out?" The medic asked through his teeth that were clenched over a syringe. From his bag he finally produced some needles and a bottle of clear liquid. Max almost growled like an animal, "I don't fucking care right now! Just shut her up!" The man nodded and firmly took hold of the girl's arm, feeling for a vein and gently protesting her claims that he was trying to kill her. She screamed as the needle dipped into her flesh and the plunger went down. Max counted back from ten, but she was gone by five. Her head fell limp, shielding her face with her thick auburn hair. "Sorry sir she's… pretty small." The medic said, his hands lingering a little too long on the tops of her legs, "You'll need to cover her up well, so that her body temperature doesn't drop too much." "That's great… get out." Cramer snarled as he proceeded to drag the man out by his shirt collar.

A wagon was filled with snow, and Hanes' body was placed in it with care. Most of the camp was confused, they didn't know who the prisoner was or the details of what had gone on in the tent. Max hand finished half a bottle of whiskey as the men prepared to leave. He just couldn't believe it. The boy he'd trained, the boy he had practically raised, was dead and he didn't bravely die in combat or peacefully of old age, he died by his own hand… supposedly. It was too hard to swallow, the idea that he'd actually killed himself and without even talking to anyone first. Greene and Cramer agreed that this mission had drove him insane and now spent their time lamenting about how he'd be alive if they hadn't pushed him to torture her, to make him watch them torture her as a 'lesson'. Max climbed into the front of the wagon that the girl was in. He was far too intoxicated to ride a horse. She was wrapped in a pile of furs and the handsy medic was sitting beside her, watching her breathing (aka staring at her breasts). If Max had the energy or the care, he'd point out that her chest of all things should be more heavily covered. But he didn't have the energy to do much of anything but stare at the road ahead as the men pulled out of their temporary camp.

* * *

**To murder minor character or not to murder minor characters, that is the question... I'm paraphrasing of course. **

**So I tried to proof read this, I will probably make some minor changes in the next few days. **

** I greatly appreciate reviews, critiques (as well as they're respectful and well written) and comments.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. A General's Desperation

**Alight then, this is kind of short for me. I suppose that's the first thing I should say about it. I'm curious though, because when I look at the traffic status, I see that there are more views than visitors, which means some people either read it more than once (which would be fantastic) or possibly that the chapter was too long. So here is the deal. I can easily pop out 7 to 10 thousand words for a single chapter, it's just my style (I'm a ranter) but if anyone reading this is going 'holy fucker pants this is just too long!' I can split chapters up and add conclusive beginnings and endings to each one. It's all the same to me and if no one tells me differently I'll assume it's the same with you and do what ever. But I decided to give a shorter chapter (sorry 4000 words is as short as I get) to see how people liked it. So, I hope you do. **

**This chapter has some... I wouldn't call it sexual behavior but some definite foreshadowing of what is to come. And I need to apologize. I'm going to make a joke in this chapter and you're going to go "Seriously?! Did you just make that joke?" The answer is yes, and I'm sorry... I swear I won't do it ever again but I wanted a bit of humor before this story gets kind of dark.  
**

**Also thanks to, for her review and thanks to anyone who read despite the dryness of the first chapter.**

* * *

_"I will hurt you for this. I don't know how yet, but give me time. A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid." _

_ George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings_

* * *

Rattling chains and rattling chains and _stomp stomp stomp—_profanity, the breath of horses in the background. Like a horrible incessant song that just never stopped playing. She couldn't escape that terrible noise and her mind wouldn't rise from the heavy haze that kept her still and passive beneath the covers. Every now and again the song would be broken and disjointed by the words of another, some man, he kept hovering over her. His words were sweet and soft, like one would speak to a frightened child… but she wasn't frightened at all. In the rare moments that they would give her the drugs late, she felt nothing but fury and confusion. She wanted **up**. Had she not been passive and cooperative until this time? By now they should at least trust her to sit quietly while restrained in a wagon, surrounded by soldiers. Hell, they could gag her and she'd be fine with that! She just wanted to sit up, to think clearly, and to be able to shove the overly friendly hands of her 'care-taker' away. Those were short lived moments though. Someone would notice she was squirming too much, and then the dull pinch of a needle would transport her back to sweet, torturous numbness. She hated them. _Damn the militia, damn every one of these men to hell! _Was always her last thought before she was gone again. How many days had passed since she'd been captured? She couldn't keep track.

She could feel hands on her shoulders, lifting her up gently, and trying to encourage her to stand. Had the drugs worn off that much? Her brain remained clouded but her limbs, though heavy as tree trunks, actually managed to support her… for the most part. Almost like she wasn't connected to her own body, she felt herself wobble and sway but at the same time, she felt nothing. Shapes didn't form when she opened her eyes, if they did she couldn't understand what they were. Colors were everywhere though, they overwhelmed her, swirled in a mass of confusion and light and darkness. She suppressed the urge to fall to her knees and vomit, opting to close her eyes instead. There was a man on either side of her incase she were to topple over. It was funny how hard they gripped her arms. She couldn't feel the pain like she should, but when opened her eyes she could see their hands clenched deeply into her flesh. Somewhere in her mind she praised herself for recognizing the shape of hands and fingers. They talked over her for a few minutes, someone reminding them not to drop her (very thoughtful of them) before they started to pull her forward. Why didn't they just carry her? As it was they were pretty much dragging her while she flailed like a codfish on land. Which foot wasn't she supposed to stand on again? The stairs to wherever they were taking her seemed to be the most daunting task she'd ever faced in her life. It looked like they ascended continuously into nothing, promising an eternal upward climb. She took a daring step forward. _**LEFT! **__Don't use your left foot! _She cursed herself. Even the drugs couldn't stop the flash of white hot pain shooting up her spine when she landed on the broken foot.

Finally she just closed her eyes and let herself fall limp, forcing them to pick her up. She didn't have the energy to comply with their wishes anyway. Even out of formation the loud stamping boots fell into synchronicity with each other. There was the sound of a door opening any shutting as they entered a warm room where she was placed on a chair. It wasn't until she was in the suffocating heat of the room that she realized she was freezing. So much that it stung actually. Ropes secured her wrists behind her once again, and her ankles were secured to the wooden legs of her seat. Something went in her arm, another needle no doubt, but instead of the haze thickening, the world became clearer. It wasn't instantaneous but slowly feeling flooded back into her. The first thing she felt was her injured foot throbbing furiously, followed by her sore muscles, and then the light in the room seemed brighter and brighter. She could hear voices and finally understand them. "Yes sir this is the girl…" A man responded, but it was in a whisper and she couldn't make it out, "Sir if we could stay a few days I'd be grateful… one of my men committed suicide in the camp before we left." Now she could hear the other one, but she didn't look up just yet, it was still too bright and her head was still too heavy. "What? Who?" The second man asked. The first man, which she recognized as the voice of Captain Max, clearly struggled to form the right words, "It was Gregory Hanes sir, he entered the girl's tent to interrogate her, or so we assumed, and he shot himself."

"What a tragedy." The other man responded in a low whisper. She finally cracked open her eyes. Colors flooded her vision, then came shapes, the world was so much clearer now! "She did it!" Cramer shouted. She knew that voice anywhere; the voice of her torturer. Apparently he spoke out of turn, because the two men ahead of her glared at him in shock and disapproval. "Lieutenant Cramer! That's uncalled for!" The captain scolded, "General Monroe please excuse him it's been a long ride." With that, the last piece of clarity returned to her, and her eyes shot up to look more closely at the man beside Captain Maxwell. He took notice of her abrupt eye contact, turning to her slowly with a contemplative look in his own eyes and a malicious, misleadingly kind smile pulled at his lips. His head tilted slightly, and he took a single step forward. So this was Monroe? If she were still drugged she defiantly would have thought he was SJ. They looked unbelievably similar. No wonder people seemed afraid of her brother before they even met him. "Is what he said true Captain Watson?" Monroe asked casually, approaching her like a tiger through the weeds. His blue eyes were so much more intense than his son's. SJ's never looked at her so… hungrily. It almost made her shiver as she matched gazes with him. "She was tied to a chair sir, with no means of escape or attack. As hard as it is to swallow, the boy died by his own hand." Max answered. Monroe gently put a hand beneath her chin and tilted her face upwards, turning it left and then right. He was pondering something; she could clearly see it in his eyes. Whatever it was he brushed it off and let her go.

"Does anyone know her name?" The general asked, looking behind her and then over to the captain. "Well I… I always assumed it was Lilly sir. I never thought to ask." Maxwell replied awkwardly. Nervously the elder man shuffled his feet and looked at her instead of Monroe. "Excuse me sir… President Monroe sir," Ah now that was her medically savvy 'friend' who had kept her drugged for days, "She told me her name one night sir. I accidentally let the drugs wear off… sir." She disguised her frown. There wasn't a single memory of that happening in her mind. '_Tell me I didn't sleep with the fucker. Even drugged I couldn't be that much of a slut'_ She cursed herself in her head. Monroe fixed his heated gaze on the man behind her. She couldn't see him, but his voice trembled with fear as he spoke. Over in the corner, Maxwell shook his head in exasperation. "It's Patricia sir! Told me to call her Pat sir!" He blurted, far too loudly. She froze in embarrassment, and a little fear, _'Please tell me I didn't.' _The general smirked at her discomfort, crossing his arms over his chest. "Thank you for confirming that." His attention turned back to the extremely uncomfortable medic behind her, "Did she tell you her last name?" "Mahiney sir. She said her name was Pat Mahiney sir." He practically shouted. _'Mother fucker! I hate myself'_ She thought, kicking herself mentally for her stupidity. Did it make it any better that she was drugged? If Monroe didn't look as though he were going to rip her head off, it would probably be funny. The general, as expected, looked far from amused. Exasperated, annoyed, maybe even shocked (most likely at her immaturity and his stupidity), but nowhere near amused. He glared at her and she flushed red, trying to convince herself that she'd have never said that sober. "She said it was Gaelic! That… that her parents—" "For the love of God shut up Levi." Max managed to mumble through his hands, which were currently covering his face in embarrassment. She wasn't sure, but she could have sworn she heard him question how the man had a 'medical degree'.

Clearly annoyed, the general sighed loudly and rubbed his forehead. "Gentlemen, please, wait outside for a while." Monroe said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His soldiers immediately obeyed filing out without a backward glance. Like dogs. Better than dogs actually. She had to tell her dogs more firmly, and remind them to continue obeying. These men weren't even bitches, more like marble chess pieces. If Monroe poked one, it never put up a fight. How could it? It was a stupid, unfeeling, inanimate piece of stone. What was amusing was how adamantly she knew Cramer wanted to accuse her. He wanted to rat her out and have her punished for 'killing' one of his men. Yet he still didn't take a stand against Monroe. There was no, "But sir!" or "Wait a minute!" Just mute obedience. It was difficult to hide her disgust. So he could show how tough and brave he was when he was questioning a restrained, helpless victim but not here? Did he truly have so little conviction? She didn't like the man but perhaps if he were at least an honest piece of people torturing shit, she may respect him for it. No. Scratch that. The disgust would be there with or without his cowardice in front of his 'President'.

The general pushed his hands into his pockets and sighed; his attention fully on her. "You understand me now don't you? The drugs have worn off?" His deceptively gentle tone was nauseating but she nodded all the same. His eyes traveled down the short length of her legs, staring at her crudely bandaged foot, "You aren't in any pain are you?" She nearly laughed. '_Oh no sir! Thank you for your kind consideration.' _Her head turned away sharply, looking out his window at the dilapidated walls of the city's buildings. He'd receive no answer from her. She was too likely to say something stupid if she opened her mouth. If he was surprised by her silence, it wasn't something he chose to show. He made a tsking sound beneath his breath, "I apologize for that. Lieutenant Cramer tends to have a temper… I've tried to convince him to curb it after all, we aren't animals." She huffed, blinking languidly and turning her chin so that she could scan the room. At least four doors and not a one of them would do any good for escaping. Pitching herself out the window was always possible but the outcome was uncertain and if they caught her before she got there… who was she kidding? There wasn't a way in hell she was breaking that glass without some serious help.

A hand on her shoulder jolted her attention forward once more. He was inches from her face, looking her over thoroughly. Something akin to, but not truly, concern was etched into his features. "My name is Sebastian Monroe, though you probably gathered that already. I'm the president of the Monroe Republic, and the general of its army." He explained proudly. She smiled stiffly, "Talk about multitasking." Damn it! What happened to the plan where she kept her smart ass mouth closed? Surprisingly, instead of snapping her neck, the general actually chuckled. Why wouldn't he quit staring at her? His eyes were like big nasty bugs, crawling all over her, making her skin prickle and itch. She squirmed ever so slightly in her seat before forcing herself still once again. "So you're Little Lilly…" He more so stated than asked. She was silently thankful he hadn't repeated what the medic had said. "A ghost? That doesn't seem a bit melodramatic?" Alright, so he could be a smart ass right back.

She sighed heavily, "Completely, but the sailors you employ are stupid and brave enough to risk oceans, on boats without electricity no less. The last thing that men like that are scared of, is a woman that barely stands five foot tall… and I don't know what it is… perhaps it is the salt water or the mist that eventually gets to them but they all turn out unbelievably superstitious. So soon after the blackout too. What used to be fable is now reality. They've all seen mermaids or sea serpents, why not a ghost?" "And a wizard. Don't forget the wizard." He added sarcastically, chuckling again. She only shrugged in response. He could judge her if he pleased, it wasn't like she gave a shit what this man thought. She would have pretended to be a werewolf and howled at the moon if it got people to leave her alone on those damn docks... thank goodness the ghost story had worked. "I think I should point out, because surprisingly no one has bothered to ask, Lilly isn't my name at all."

He glowered at her, "Do not play this game with me." His hands gripped either side of her chair and he leaned into her face. Each breath of hot air coming off him made her stomach flip with nausea. "No, no. It isn't that either. Well… not all of it. I technically am of Gaelic decent." She rambled. Why was she rambling? Her nervousness was showing the more she spoke. She paused for a second. Why was she talking to him at all? Maybe because it didn't matter anymore, she was here and they were going to kill her soon enough anyway. Maybe because it just felt nice to hear her voice, even if her throat was raspy and she sounded kind of odd. Whatever it was, she told herself to shut her mouth if she couldn't control her nerves while it was open. It was clear to see his patience was waning with her, but she chose to ignore it. "You know it's funny. I've had to have been a captive for at least a week now; no one has thought to ask my name… or anything about me for that matter." She answered, trying her best to stay relaxed and not show him any fear. "Your name isn't Lilly?" He reiterated her previous statement.

"My name is Blair. More accurately McKenna Blair, two first names. Though the only time anyone ever uses them both is when I'm in trouble." She said as casually as possible. Monroe narrowed his eyes at her and shoved the chair backwards, causing her to breathe a sigh of relief. "See? That wasn't hard to say was it? Here I thought from looking at your broken foot, and the fact that they drugged you, that you were going to be difficult to talk to." As he spoke he gestured to her leg, and started to walk toward her once more. Every step was laggard yet methodical. He was trying to dominate her, to intimidate her. She buried her desire to shiver and looked away, giving him a tight smile instead, "I'm pretty sure the foot breaking was just for kicks. You know boys, always playing rough…. Now the drugs, that is probably more about how they think I'm a murderer." "And are you?" He asked slowly, pushing her hair behind her neck and weaving his fingers through it.

Blair couldn't suppress the tremble that his touch caused but she stubbornly kept her eyes on his. He didn't seem pleased, nor surprised, at her refusal to back down. "A murderer? Sure. Isn't everyone these days?" She answered him in a low whisper. His hand suddenly grasped her hair in an iron clad grip, twisting the strands around his hand and jerking her head back, "Did you _kill_ one of my men?" The tone of his voice was frightening enough, but the fact that he looked so much like someone she loved was deeply disturbing. He hovered over her like a great malevolent crow, staring with cruel, hungry eyes. There was no escaping his hold. It was almost animalistic the way he held her; with her neck fully exposed to him and his face hovering inches from her own. She wanted to close her eyes so badly, to look away from his gaze filled with ire, but her stubbornness outweighed her fear. If he was going to snap her neck, she wouldn't die a cowering bitch. Her pride simply wouldn't allow it.

"As I recall," She said tensely, "That poor, deluded, man killed himself. Took a gun to his head right in front of me. I was as surprised as they were." After a long pause, which Monroe took to seemingly stare straight into her soul, he released her and turned away. "What do you know about my son?" He asked carefully. Blair could see his hands trembling by his sides, clenched into tight fists. This was going to get painful soon, and while she'd come prepared for that, it wasn't something she looked forward to. "I know nothing about your son." She lied, convincingly, but perhaps a bit too quickly. It would have sounded less rehearsed if she'd have taken a couple of breaths before spitting that out. The general sighed and pushed his hand through his curly brown hair, "Do I look like an idiot to you?" It was so hard to process his deathly threat, and to stop herself from saying something snarky like she had moments ago, like she would have with SJ. She was sure if she made any comment of the sort, it would be followed by unnecessary pain. Clearly, she'd pressed her luck to its limit.

"Fine." She snipped, "I know everything you'd ever want to know about your son. Perhaps a bit more than you'd like." His eyes sparkled malevolently as he stared at her. It was almost like he was deciding whether or not to eat her, not what question to ask her. His tongue slipped from his mouth to wet his lips, "So why don't you… make this easy on yourself… and tell me now? Who says this can't be civil?" Blair clenched her jaw tightly. Her back tensed against the hard wood of the chair as he spoke. "I do… because it won't matter in the end. I'm going to stall you, lie to you, and feed you complete bullshit until you realize it isn't worth the hassle and you kill me. That could be two seconds, it could be two months, I don't know but it doesn't matter. Your son is long gone by now and you'll never—" She was cut off by the back of his hand hitting her so hard that she saw stars and spat blood. Shock coursed through her veins; she hadn't even seen him move. Her cheek pulsed painfully and she forced the rest of the blood in her mouth down her throat. It was a disgusting feeling. The sound of his knuckles cracking echoed in the open air as he clenched and unclenched his fist. She held off a sarcastic laugh. The bastard had actually hit her so hard that his own hand stung. Good. Torture was so much more… fair, when everyone involved was getting hurt. "**Where **is he?" The General hissed, pulling her head up to look him in the face. Blair sneered and refused to make eye contact, "I haven't a clue." Her tone was easily just as annoyed as Monroe's. But really, what did the man expect? That once she was faced with the great and terrible General Sebastian Monroe in the flesh, she'd cower and tell him everything immediately? No, she'd come prepared for this part. They would torture her and in a few weeks, perhaps even a month or so, they'd kill her because she wouldn't talk. She wasn't a fool.

He hit her again. She didn't think it was possible to hit _harder_ than he had the first time, but somehow he managed. Her body shook with discomfort and begged her to speak up. As it turns out, theoretical knowledge of pain was nothing compared to the actual feeling of it. She briefly wondered if they'd pull out her teeth and moaned silently. Dying toothless seemed horrifically embarrassing. Living toothless was even worse. Forget smiling, she'd never smile again if she were toothless. She embraced the rabbit trail as long as possible, thankful for the distraction (however morbid it may have been) from her current situation.

She dared to look up at his face. He was literally twitching in his frustration. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were narrow, and his hand was trembling in front of him. Blair questioned herself. It wouldn't do any good now, but was all if this really worth it? Letting herself be caught? Suffering torture for the rest of her considerably shortened life? Her body trembled with a mixture of pain and fear. SJ had Florence to look out for. Florence who was his wife, her sister and one of her best friends, who was pregnant with a child right now. What would this man do if she just… told him the truth? Surly he would leave them alone. Any sane person would see their child was better off, was happier, this way and would put aside their wants for that. Or would Monroe really be sick enough to hunt them down? Would he be cruel enough to hurt the woman carrying his grandchild if he found her and not SJ? The look on his face suggested this man was willing to do anything it took to get his hands on his son. Cross countries, sail oceans, murder babies. Hell, it couldn't have been easy to find about her. She didn't want to know what horrors lead up to the day she saw the militia ride into town looking for her.

It was a good thing though, that she'd found them there. It was good that it was her and not Flo or SJ. Flo would have panicked; SJ would have tried to fight. Both alternatives would have ended badly for them… but this way they might actually make it out alive. It would buy them time to hide. Maybe they could even jump on a boat and sail off somewhere before Monroe gained control of the whole damn continent. Yes. It was best this way. She was manipulative, she was intelligent, she could force herself to be pragmatic and swallow her emotions if it suited her. So what if she didn't walk out of this with her life? Hadn't she already gotten what she wanted? No, not exactly, but it didn't matter now. There was no going back. Her only option now was to make peace with this decision that she'd made.

The general's hand lifted once more and with renewed strength, she glared up at him stubbornly. Her silent message was well received by the general, who only gave her a demented smile in response. "If you think I can't break you," He paused, very gently running his hand down her cheek and stroking her neck with his thumb, "You're wrong." His hand continued to wonder, rubbing over her shoulders and through her hair. She would have bit him if she wasn't mortified by his behavior. She would have preferred that he just hit her again. Was being so damn touchy a requirement in this damn Republic? She tried not to shake. Her full attention focused on not shaking, not showing him weakness. He was behind her now, leaned over her back, his face partially buried in her hair. It was too hot in here. He was too hot. He was too close. He wouldn't possibly? Her breath caught in her chest. Bile reared up like a spooked horse in her throat. When she thought of torture… that wasn't where her mind had gone.

Through the bars of the chair, Monroe ran his hands over her hips slowly. He was laughing to himself and nudging her ever so softly with his cheek. _'Fuck just get away from me.' _She swore, closing her eyes. It didn't help. In fact it only made it worse. After all she couldn't see him from where he was. She could feel him and with her eyes closed it only forced her to focus on his touch more. "You can trust me when I say this;" He inhaled deeply, "The militia prides itself on its ability to break people and me… well I learned from the master." He let out the deep breath he'd taken and backed away from her, casually strolling to the door. His fist pounded against the expensive wood roughly and it swung open. A blonde man stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. He smirked as he entered the room. "Captain Baker here is going to show you to your room." Monroe said as he bent down to loosen her bonds. His hands lingered on her arms, tapping the thick metal band on her left before pulling her onto her feet and handing her over to the blonde man. Captain Baker took a firm hold on her shoulder and steered her toward the door. "And rest assured… McKenna Blair, you will tell me everything I want to know… eventually." Monroe said from behind as her new captor pulled her away.

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_"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." _  
_― Lao Tzu_

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**If you haven't figured it out, I omitted Baker's death because I actually really liked his character (unlike in Lost, where he was a douche bag).**

**What happened to Hanes? Who is SJ? What the fuck is Blair doing? Why is Monroe hitting women when it's completely out of his character profile? The only answer I'll give you is for the last one. I wanted to demonstrate how desperate he is to find his son, even if it takes physical violence. I think the irony is funny, considering his heart to heart with Rachel about his son being proud of him.**

**If you're wondering "Wtf with the quotes?", I like them because the either accentuate a point I'm making, or give you hints to what makes my characters tick.**

**If you're waiting for the sex chapter that I promised you, you won't have to wait long. It'll probably be in chapter three or four. **


	3. We Interrupt This Scheduled Program

**Ok, so we need to go over a couple of things really quick. The chapter should be out within the next couple of days, I plan on working on it tonight. I've been sick I apologize.**

**Now the reason this in an individual slot is because not everyone reads author's notes and this one is important. My story will continue on this site, don't worry, but I have been warned that for some reason they are cracking down hard on this fandom's maturity levels. SO the sex scenes (which will be fairly graphic) will be posted on tv dot adult fanfiction dot net / story. php? no= 600097981 remove the spaces and put a dot for the word dot, and it'll take you right to the story as it is on AFF. The story may eventually be moved to Archive of Your Own, when I have time to monkey with it. I'll let you know if that happens.**

**So if you WANT to read the sex, then go to that site because it WILL be omitted from this site, I do not feel like having my account buggered with just because some people aren't 'mature' enough to be reading a sex scene.**

**Lastly, there are a lot of warnings and tags on AFF, if you bother to look them up you should know that they are subject to change. On this site I would consider this a dark fic, on AFF it's probably pretty soft core shit, so keep your eyes peeled, the sexless part of this chapter is coming soon.**

**PS: I got some very lovely reviews on my last chapter, thank you very much to everyone, your support and kind words are always very up lifting, as well as any constructive critique you make!**


	4. To Prostitute Yourself for a Good Cause

**So here it is, finally! Despite a bout of the flu and a minor kick from my snot bucket horse, I have finished the chapter! Lol. The sex scene, again isn't posted here. It will be posted either tonight or tomorrow on AFF dot net. I'm already not sure if I'll be in trouble for the slight gore of this chapter.**

**Massive thanks to Valantha for beta reading this for me and also to anyone who follows, reviews, favs, or even glaces at my stories. Oh, as an after thought I added a couple of paragraphs to the end and I didn't want to bother Valantha just to proof read those, so they may look different. Also I felt awkward asking anyone to beta read my sex scene, so that will be done by me too. **

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_Do you believe a man could become so obsessed with a woman, from a single encounter?_  
_Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for her and find nourishment in the very sight of her? I think so. But would she see through the bars of his plight and ache for him?"_  
_― Thomas Harris, Hannibal_

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For a month and a half they'd had her now. This horrible, stubborn, beautiful creature that frightened half of the guards he set at her door. She wasn't particularly violent or cruel, just the opposite in fact. The girl never fought the soldiers, she never tried to escape, and unless they were inflicting some sort of terrible pain on her, she never screamed. This, in itself, seemed to disturb the men outside her door. Normal prisoners fight. Rachel Matheson; holy hell that woman could fight. And Nora? She'd killed a man twice her size while she was drugged. No one had ever been afraid of them though. Well… maybe Nora, if they were alone and she was unchained. This girl was probably a head and a half shorter than both of those women (especially Rachel) and yet she made his full grown men, his hardened soldiers afraid with her compliant behavior.

But their biggest issue with her did not lie in her eerie silence, but in her songs. Haunting, beautiful songs. The girl sang and sang. It was like she had a million melodies locked away in her memory, and she never ran out of something to sing. Finally, after hours, she would expend so much energy in her songs that she would pass out. Unconsciousness was one of the few things that kept her from singing. The only other times she stopped were when she was eating and when they were torturing her. Most of them were not in English, though a few had been in Spanish. This seemed to make the paranoia of the guards grow… alongside of Lieutenant Cramer's wild stories. Because if they didn't know what was really being said, the claim that she was trying to curse them all in song was easier to believe. Strange, as long as the general had known Cramer, he'd been a logical man. If you'd have brought up spirits or voodoo to him he'd have laughed or maybe cussed you out. Now he began spouting rumors to anyone that would listen. He would say she could hypnotize people or something like that, just by singing a song. It was a curse, her beautiful voice, and that is what had killed one of his men. As ridiculous as it all sounded, Monroe had noticed a significant amount of nervousness in her guards… but so long as they continued to follow orders, he didn't pay them any attention… lately he only had eyes for her.

He could barely believe his eyes when they brought her in. After all of this searching, after all of this trouble_ this_ girl was what they had to show for it? _This_ tiny little girl frightened sailors? What was she? Not much over five feet tall. She wasn't scarred and calloused from battle either. And _this _beautiful young woman was the one who traveled with his son and no one noticed them? Granted, she was no super model and perhaps not everyone's taste, but she was lovely. She had flawless pale skin and eyes like grey mist, sloping curves and thick lips… someone had to have noticed her before now. Everything about her seemed the opposite of what he'd been imagining since he'd gotten the letter. Of course he'd imagined something much more menacing. Like a 6-foot tall woman with the muscles of a seaman. Looking back on it… that scenario seemed just as unlikely as the truth. Though, if he thought about it, she _did_ look like some sort of Pirates of the Caribbean dress-up doll in her tall brown boots, tight riding pants and loose white poet's shirt. Almost all of her clothes had a tear in them somewhere and there were multiple stains from what looked like a mixture of blood and dirt. He couldn't tell if it was her blood or not.

Despite the fact that she was covered in filth, even initially, he'd wanted her. Not nearly as bad as he wanted her now, after watching her for over a month through a concealed hole in the wall of her dark concrete cell, but the attraction was there. The desire to knock her determination and stubbornness right off her face was instant, as was the desire to touch her. At first, perhaps, it was because it felt so surreal that he'd finally found something, anything, which may be able to lead him to what he so desperately searched for… At first. He'd watched every interrogation with increased intensity and somehow, without his knowing, he'd sit down to stare through the tiny hole and suddenly hours would be gone. It was overwhelming to sit there and watch her sing (he didn't have a microphone in the room so he couldn't listen)… or even worse to watch them torture her. Everything he wanted, she had. Her secrets, her spirit, her _flesh_, those were the only things he found that he truly wanted anymore… and he had no leverage over her to make her bend to his will. All he had was pain and patience. The latter she seemed to have in excess and in response to the former she had tolerance and the delusion that one day she would be killed and in death she would escape him… but he wasn't about to let that happen.

After the first few weeks he had found himself flying into uncontrollable rage whenever the torturers got too… spirited. Everything had been fine until he'd observed one of the sessions from inside of her cell. A soldier pulled out one of her back teeth and in her weakness (they hadn't been keeping her well fed and watered at the time) her body had gone into shock and she had nearly died. He had watched the whole thing, sick to his stomach when he heard her screams. Some demented, almost kind part of him hated to hear such a heart breaking sound. Rachel had never screamed like that. Rachel had always been brave. She may have cried out some, but she never screamed so loudly, so freely, in suffering and frustration. Dignity didn't seem as important to the little red head as he knew it had been to Rachel. It was obvious that she didn't care anymore, that all she had left in this world was her secrets, and there was nothing worth abandoning them for. She would happily die before she said anything and she'd demonstrated it that day.

He could remember the sound and the pliers clicking dully against the tooth as the soldier got a good hold like he could remember horror films from the before the blackout.

They grabbed her head and held her in place… but she hadn't been fighting them. It was disturbing to see her just sit there, horrified but stubborn, waiting for them to rip her molar out. The tooth didn't come out with one clean yank, or two. It took about four hard pulls to tear it free. The force had sent the little tooth flying across the room to be lost in the darkness. She had screamed the whole time. He'd wondered when this sort of thing had stopped bothering him… and why it was affecting him so much all of the sudden. She screamed and screamed until she'd just stopped. Her small body, smeared with her own blood and sweat swayed unsteadily in the chair, her chest worked rapidly in desperation for more air, and then she began to vomit. She didn't have anything but bile to expel but her diaphragm relentlessly contracted and forced out fluid. Before they could pull her out of the chair she slumped over, motionless, a still black shadow in the dim candle-light.

His heart raced painfully inside of his chest as one of the soldiers pressed two bloody fingers against her pulse point, checking for signs of life. They laid her gently onto her side, trying to clear her air-ways until a doctor could be retrieved. What was most likely only minutes felt like hours as he teetered on the edge of emotional turmoil. The doctor had burst in with unbelievable calm, and assessed the situation. After much dread and some careful medical attention, she rejoined the realm of consciousness, only for a moment, before she was given some powerful drugs to dull her pain. Even in the light of all of this, he hadn't been able to calm down.

The saying "seeing red" seemed like a massive understatement. His heart was racing, his fists were trembling, his jaw couldn't be pried open with a fucking crowbar, and the world just seemed blurred… except for her, and of course the men who'd nearly murdered her (he couldn't bring himself to accept any blame for this horrific act of cruelty). It took every bit of restraint he could muster (and some extra restrain from Baker) to keep him from beating the man who had pulled the tooth with his bare hands. How dare that stupid, ignorant man almost take something so important from him! The man was sentenced to the firing squad and Monroe made an official announcement to all of her caretakers that they weren't to endanger her life… and they weren't to leave any scars. That last bit had been an afterthought and he'd noticed how uncomfortable it had made Jeremy. Baker was the only one that had seen the extent of his new found obsession and Sebastian knew it was starting to worry him. He'd even accused him of replacing his interest in Miles with the girl and he wasn't wrong. Monroe could see what was happening to him, he could feel the familiar pull in his gut, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted her.

He decided that torture wasn't working. If it was working, then it was doing so far too slowly for his taste. You can't threaten someone with death, doom, and damnation or even pain, when they just didn't care. You can't play chicken with someone who will never chicken out. The result will always be a bloody collision. So, if scaring her wouldn't work, perhaps being nice would. This was, of course, mainly for extracting information from her. The fact that this might, as a secondary result, make her more open to his advances was just icing on the cake. That's what he'd told himself when he decided to pull her out of her cell for dinner that evening, but now that she was here, cleaned up, and in clothes that weren't torn to bits, the lines had begun to blur. Eventually he had just stopped lying to himself. She was here because he was starting to think she'd never tell them anything and if he couldn't get information from her, perhaps he could get something else. That was the truth and once he admitted it, Bass forced himself to stop caring about how it looked… or what his men might think. Since when did he owe anyone any explanations?

The meal so far had been completely silent. She'd picked at her food for an eternity before attempting to stomach the roasted chicken. They'd fed her nothing but bread and water since she came. Her body weight had gone from healthy, with a little weight to spare, to thin in that time. If she didn't start eating better soon, she may just get her wish and die from some sort of nutritional deficiency. Not that Bass would ever let that happen. He watched her gingerly chew her food on one side of her mouth, even weeks after she was still sore from the pulling of her tooth. Monroe didn't even try to act as though he wasn't leering at her like some sort of predator. Her hair was pulled up, revealing some nasty purple bruising that he chose to ignore, her face was washed clean, and the simple black dress fit her nicely, even if it was a little too loose.

The silence in the room was going to drive him crazy soon but he wasn't really sure what to say. This wasn't a date, it was a mind game and the bland, unimpressed look on her face told him that she knew that too.

Finally when the sound of nothing but silverware on plates and crackling torches was about to make him strangle something, she spoke. "May I ask you a question?" She didn't look at him when she said it. Instead, she had taken particular interest in watching the wine swirl around in her glass.

Bass chuckled a bit in response to the irony. "You're asking _me _something?" He said with a tilt of his head, "And… tell me, why should I answer your questions if you won't answer mine?" Her eyes squinted into angry slits for just a moment before she returned to her emotionless façade.

"I figured anything was preferable to awkwardly sitting here waiting for you to tell me what all of this is about. If you don't want me to ask, I won't ask." She snipped defensively. The glass of dark wine lifted to her lips and she took a greedy, unladylike gulp.

Curious, though not wanting to admit she was right, Sebastian leaned back and signaled for her to continue with a small hand gesture, "Ask away."

Her lips pursed into a tight line, "Have you thought this through?" She paused, but didn't let him respond, "I mean really. Say I knew where my brother was, and I assure you I no longer do, and say I was willing to tell you, which I never will be, but if I did tell you and you went there and you found him… then what? What if he doesn't want _you _as badly as you want _him_?"

The general stared at her in shock, picking up his glass of scotch and downing the rest of it. Honestly, he'd tried not to think of that. Thinking of that was both terrifying and infuriating. Even at the mention of it, he felt his temper flare. He'd have punished anyone else for talking to him that way but not her… at least not now. One, because anything she said about his son was interesting to him, painful or not and two, because that is exactly what she wanted. She was trying to goad him for some reason, maybe just for the hell of it, and he wasn't about to let her win by getting emotional unless she crossed any major lines.

He just smirked and poured himself another glass of scotch, "I guess that is something I'll have to deal with if it comes up… I'm surprised that you would say anything about him though, you haven't been open to discussing him so far with my men."

Her head snapped up, this time she actually looked angry, "You mean your torturers. If you're going to let them do it, don't be too much of a coward to call it what it is."

What had been a small hint of an accent seemed to get stronger the angrier she got. He still wasn't sure where it was from though. The first day they'd brought her here she had said something about Gaelic decent… that was Ireland right? He wasn't sure.

She took a moment (and another gulp of wine) to regain her composure, "And your men have been asking me the same questions for who only knows how long. Maybe if you'd ask something else you'd get a different response."

The general frowned, confused, angry, and not entirely sure if she was trying to trick him, "So you'll tell me about my son?" He paused for a response but she only nodded and started to pick at her food again. She had to be screwing with him. No one subjects themselves to torture to keep a secret and then tells all the first time they're asked nicely. His grip on his fork tightened to the point where it threatened to bend, the mixture of lust and anger was starting to take over him, and if she kept at this game he'd end up hurting her badly for such blatant insolence. Disrespect, in any form, was never tolerated by him.

"Why?" He asked after a long silence. She frowned sadly in response, letting out a heavy sigh, "As a sort of last-ditch effort to get you to see reason. I wouldn't be stupid enough to tell you anything that would lead you to him, but perhaps if I told you enough information—select information, you'd realize that he's happy." She stopped for a long time, staring at the wall looking utterly lost, "And if that really mattered to you, then you'd just… leave him alone. Let him be happy."

The conversation was quickly taking an ugly turn. Bass was desperately trying to be pleasant to her but she was pushing it! How the hell did she know _his _son wouldn't be happy with _him?_ Did she really have the audacity to believe he would hurt his own child? Who the fuck was she to determine what was right or wrong when it came to his family? Suddenly he didn't want to talk about his son anymore. Not now. He wasn't ready to face the fact, or even imagine, that his flesh and blood wouldn't want him; that he wasn't the absolute best thing for him. If he let her keep going down this trail, she may just get herself killed. That was what she wanted wasn't it?

His fist slammed violently against the hardwood of the table, and everything resting upon it shook. She didn't flinch, only looked down at her lap in an attempt to conceal her face. "Do you not understand that I am trying to be civil?" He shouted as he abruptly stood from his seat.

The chair flew back so hard that it crashed against the cement wall. Her lips twitched, as if she wanted to speak, but then she thought better of it and closed her mouth. His hands bounced in nervous agitation as he approached her before clasping the back of her chair in a crushing grasp.

"It doesn't… have to be like this." She trembled as one of his hands left the chair to gently stroke the flesh of her neck. "We don't have to… fight, like this." He could feel her breathing still as his hand got more and more bold, tenderly tracing her side as he knelt to talk into her ear. "You don't have to keep hurting." He whispered. His face pressed into the loosely tied hair of her pony-tail.

"And what… all I have to do is tell you where he is right?" She said, her tone dripping with mockery.

His roaming hand gripped her arm so tightly that she winced and dropped her fork, "Ya know I'm really trying not to lose my temper with you but you aren't making it easy." It wasn't until he heard a whimper of pain leave her lips that he loosened his hold on her.

He pressed his lips against her smooth, warm neck, nearly moaning at the feel of her so close, "And maybe… you could give me something besides information… and I could make your life" He stopped to kiss shoulder, lingering for a second, and just inhaling the scent of her. He was glad he'd told them to wash her before dinner, "I could make your life so much better."

Her shallow breathing picked up as her anxiety clearly rose. He could feel her get even tenser beneath his hand and in the torchlight he could see the hairs on her neck stand up.

"My life is perfectly fine," She whispered, licking her lips over and over. It was obvious that he was frightening her, "But what does it matter? You'll probably take what you want regardless of my answer."

Sebastian frowned. He'd never raped a woman, actually he'd never tortured one himself ether. It seemed… barbaric. He wasn't some he man that would drag a woman back to his cave and fuck her despite her protests. Many women would eagerly lay with him and if those ran out, whores were an easy thing to come by nowadays. But he didn't take rejection well. He never had. Rejection had a way of bringing out the worst in him. Even now he was struggling against the urge to hurt her.

Instead, he cleared his throat, "Of course not. You can say no all you like. I was just trying to be nice… to offer you a more comfortable situation."

That seemed to bring out the courage in her and she jerked her arm away from him. "I'm going to have to decline your generous offer _General." _She was still whispering, and still clearly unnerved.

Sebastian stood up abruptly and waved at the guards by the door, "We'll see if you feel that way in another month or—" He was cut off by the doors bursting open and a tall, muscular man with dark skin storming in.

"Sir!" The man said, panting for more air, "Sir, we have just discovered there has been a threat on your life."

Monroe frowned, absent-mindedly resting his hand against Blair's shoulder, "By whom? Miles?"

The man shook his head stiffly, "No sir. One of your maids was caught poisoning the decanter of whiskey you keep in your office. My men have her detained down the hall, awaiting your order." The General nearly groaned, he did not need this frustration on top of everything else!

"Bring her here." He snapped, his hand tightening unintentionally against Blair's shoulder. The redhead winced in response but didn't dare speak up at the moment, he was already furious with her.

The large man disappeared for only a moment, then returned, flanked by two more soldiers (a short, stocky man and a fit, angry-looking woman) between them was a woman in her twenties. Her face was red with tear-stains streaked down her cheeks.

She trembled in fright when Monroe glared at her but bravely shouted at him, "You killed my husband! H-he did everything for you and—and you made him crazy!" Her shrill voice bounced off of the walls and echoed down the hall. Monroe squinted his eyes, trying to remember something.

"They didn't even let me bury him! They took him off to God-only-knows where and I'll never see him again!" She screeched, even louder than the first time. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blair wince and Bass loosened his grip.

The realization suddenly dawned on him, "You're Corporal Hanes' wife… The young man that killed himself." He said slowly, more to himself than to her.

"He only did it because you drove him to do it! He begged his commanding officer not to go! He didn't want to leave me after I had a miscarriage! But you MADE him go! Now he's dead and I—I'm all alone!" If not for the soldiers holding her up she'd have collapsed to the ground in tears. Her loud wailing was almost deafening. Monroe ignored her, waving his hand as he turned away. He had a horrible headache from this whole ordeal. Everything that had happened tonight was a disaster.

"Your husband died for a good cause." He looked over his shoulder for only a moment to speak to her captors, "Hang her in the morning. Make a spectacle of it. I want everyone to understand the consequences for such a crime." The guards nodded and began to pull the hysterical woman away.

"Wait!" Blair shouted, bolting up from her seat. Sebastian turned to glare at her and to his surprise she was staring right at him.

"I'll do it. I'll… give you what you wanted. Willingly. Just… just don't hurt this woman." He could swear the young redhead's eyes were filling with tears as she pleaded with him, "Hasn't she been through enough? The only reason she did it was because she was in pain." It didn't excuse her behavior, not to Monroe. He'd killed people for a hell of a lot less than an assassination attempt but he was curious. Blair was genuinely upset, begging him, all of the sake of some woman she didn't even know. Sure the man had shot himself in front of her, but that didn't mean this was her problem. If he'd had known she was such a bleeding-heart he'd have used this against her before now.

He approached her slowly, putting a hand beneath her chin and stroking her skin with his thumb, "And why do you care?"

"Because I know what it's like when the person you love more than anything is just… gone. I know how that tears people apart." She whispered, "And you were right before… why would I choose to live in hell if you can give me something better?" Bass wiped away a tear that dripped down her cheek, putting his other arm around her and pulling her close. He gently lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. At first she did nothing but shiver in his arms but slowly she gave herself over to the kiss and stiffly participated. She didn't want this, that was still apparent, but she was trying to, and Bass didn't care about anything else. He pulled back and gasped silently for air.

His forehead rested against hers and he stared into her teary eyes for a while before whispering, "Ok." Clearing his throat again, the general stood up tall and addressed the soldier's at the door way, "Take her out of the city and let her go." He told them sternly, guiding Blair by the arm that was still around her waist towards the opposite set of doors that lead to the stairs. She looked over her shoulder briefly but didn't try and hesitate. Silently, she let him lead her away.

* * *

_"When trapped in a nightmare and offered a dream... How could you not want to escape?" Crystal Origins:Crystal Fears, Unicorn9927 dA_

* * *

The bed felt cold, stale, as he rose from the depths of sleep. It was still dark outside and he could here a voice from somewhere in the blackness, it was singing. Slowly he came to the understanding that it was that voice which woke him from blissful rest. Bass pushed himself up onto his forearms, searching the room for Blair. When had she left the bed? He'd always been a heavy sleeper and the three glasses of scotch he'd downed at dinner had probably only made it worse. If she were whispering right now, he'd probably have never gotten up.

He pushed himself up onto his forearms and searched the darkness. She was sitting in a chair beside the window, which was now open, staring up at the moon with a mournful expression as she sang. He'd heard this song before. Most of her songs were new every time, but she sang this one often. Every time the day guards would switch with the night ones outside her cell, she'd sing it. It wasn't in any language he understood or recognized but it was one of the most beautiful (and foreboding) songs that she sang.

_"O chì, chì mi na mòr-bheanna_  
_O chì, chì mi na còrr-bheanna_  
_O chì, chì mi na coireachan_  
_Chì mi na sgoran fo cheò"_

Bass swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to close the window. Why hadn't she jumped out of it? She had said multiple times that she was prepared to die... why hadn't she taken her opportunity? He shivered and jerked it shut; it was cold as shit out there. Why had she opened the window when it was freezing outside if not to jump out? He looked at her inquisitively, like she may actually answer him, but she only kept singing. She stared straight through him, up at the twinkling stars above the city. How stupid he'd been to assume she would actually change after spending the night together.

"Hey." He mumbled tiredly, nudging her on the shoulder. She sighed heavily and looked over at him, he couldn't see her expression as well now, the light of the moon was obstructing her face with shadows. The general felt his way over to the fireplace and fumbled with a pack of matches. He lit an old cloth aflame and tossed it onto the logs, which slowly flared to life as the fire grew, "Why are you out of bed?"

"I didn't know that I wasn't allowed to get up." She answered quietly, looking over her shoulder at the growing fire. She was still naked, not even a cover spread over her pale chest to shield her from the frigid air she'd been letting in. He took hold of her arms and pulled her back into the bed beside him, pressed against his chest. This time he held onto her tightly as he drifted back into slumber.

* * *

**Well there you have it. In chapter four I'll start to actually reveal some stuff about Blair. I'm trying to re-watch Monroe's scenes, especially ones where he is trying to get information out of people, to mimic his dialog. He speaks very proper doesn't he? Talks like a gentleman, acts like a whack job. Also, because apparently some people still don't know, season 2 trailer is out and Bass has his shirt off. Charlie does too (but we all saw that coming). Now if we can only get Elizabeth Mitchell's shirt off... damn you eight o'clock time slot you better not interfere!**


	5. Losing Your Head

**Hello my fellow twisted and perverse minds! You want to hear some random advice from LLCoyote land? FYI this has nothing to do with the story, so you can scroll down if you'd like... Still here? Awesome. So, I don't know if any of you have horses but I learned a valuable lesson this week and that is: You are never better than a fucking warning label. As I went to put fly spray on my horses this week, I realized I had no rag to apply it to their faces (don't worry horse lovers, this is sweat and water resistant) so I sprayed it on my hand... KNOWING that the warning label said not to. I was like, "Fuck that, skin is skin. It doesn't bother them and I'm not a baby." Yeah... no, my hands turned red and they burned for three hours. So there is the advice kiddies, and the lesson it really boils down to, is that I am an idiot.**

* * *

_"All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive." _  
_― Yann Martel, Life of Pi_

* * *

Light poured through the expansive windows, spilling across the dark hardwood and making its way over to the bed to wake her from a none-too restful sleep. Blair groaned at the feeling of a heavy arm draped over her waist. Monroe was snoring quietly behind her. His bare chest rose and fell gently against her back. Apparently the light didn't bother him like it did her… but what did bother this man? It seemed he had no conscious, no feeling. He was a husk of a person, without true emotion it seemed, desperately clawing towards something regardless of the cost. She couldn't fault him too much for it. After all, how was that any different from what she was doing? Who the fuck was she to put herself on a pedestal above anyone? If you want to be technical—specific— and put bad deeds in categories and on levels, then sure he was worse than she was… but there is only one level of monster. Because once you become a monster, nothing else matters. It is useless to compare yourself to other beasts.

That isn't to say she excused him for his actions. She hadn't thought it through when she burst out of her chair to spare that woman. She knew full and well what she was agreeing to logically, but she hadn't really thought about the ramifications. Now she was sore all over, mentally and physically. Her private parts ached in protests to every tiny movement of her thighs, there was a clump of hair matted up with blood from where she'd hit her head, and she was pretty sure that he'd made her pull something in her back. With a sigh she gently lifted his arm off of her and slid out of bed. She didn't care if it pissed him off. What was more pain on top of all of the pain they had already put her through? It was all starting to blur together… and that frightened her.

Faking emotion was a skill she was practically born with. She could fake happiness, sadness, fear, even a complete lack of emotion under the most strenuous of circumstances without flaw; it was one of the handiest arrows in her quiver of tricks, but actually feeling nothing was a different story. Pretending you have no emotions, doesn't mean you can't be a highly emotional being, and usually Blair was a woman of strong emotion and standards. There were times though, and it was more often than she was comfortable with, when she felt numb all over. Almost like she turned her arrow onto herself and let the bow go. Usually she combated it by getting busy, very busy, until the 'non-feeling' passed. If she couldn't get busy… things went downhill quickly. She'd forget to eat, or sleep, or do anything really. If she just took a moment to sit still during those times, she'd sit forever. Her brother was usually her saving grace. If not for him, she probably would have fallen into some 'crazy fit' (as Florence delicately called it) and gotten herself killed, maybe even starved to death. "Blair you need to take the dogs down to the lake. They're driving me insane!" or "Blair your stupid horse bit me again. Get up! Get up and groom her yourself, she looks like shit!" Sometimes out of 'brotherly love' he'd give her a light shove for good measure.

But what could she do here? Go back to her cell and get tortured was the most likely answer. She went to the chair she'd been sitting in the night before. There were cracks in the leather; it was old, much older than she'd ever live to be. Blair sat down and tried to curl her legs up under her, but a sharp stab of pain immediately made her put her feet back on the ground. She rested her head against the side of the chair, staring down at her arms folded across her lap. Everything hurt. It had never hurt before. She always just assumed the rumors about being with a man were inflated or misinformed, but she was wrong. Being with a man hurt and she prayed she never had to endure such pain and indignity again.

Her mind flashed back to last night. She should have drunk more. If she had more alcohol in her system maybe she wouldn't have been able to remember. But she had been sober. She'd kissed him back, tasting the scotch on his lips. It was a part she was playing, she reminded herself. If she would have gone back on her word, he most certainly would have gone back on his and killed that woman. Her stomach hurt. She felt nauseated, completely ill. Acting or not, she had kissed him back. Blair shut her eyes tightly and gritted her teeth together. She was so angry her body was shaking, her nails dug down painfully into her own flesh. She _**hated**_him! She hated his because of his army, because of his selfishness, because of his short temper, because he made her hate. There was only one other person in this world she had truly hated… and that person was dead. Would Monroe become suddenly ill and die? Most likely not. Could she kill Monroe? She doubted it.

Blair looked down at her arms, her eyes flicking from one freckle to the next. Like little brown stars on a sea of white. Her anger suddenly dissipated, and she felt quite tired, maybe even peaceful; something akin to that at least. No it wasn't peace, it was just calm. Sweet, over powering calm. She pressed one of her fingers against one of the dull brown flecks. Had she ever just, taken the time to look at them? She couldn't remember. They looked so lovely in the light of the winter sun. '_One, two, three.' _She counted (to herself of course), drawing imaginary lines from one cinnamon-colored fleck to the next. '_Four, five, six, seven. Oh look, I've made a fish or maybe a whale… I love whales. Do whales have freckles?' _She wondered, drawing pretend waves beneath the imaginary picture. '_Bugger. What number was that? Seven. I was on seven. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. What was that old song mum used to sing about numbers?' _Blair felt a knot in her throat, alarmed for a moment, she couldn't remember! What if she forgot all of her mother's songs? What if thoughts of him were all she'd have left some day? Her lips quivered at the thought.

One song came back to her. It was some silly nonsensical tune that her mother used to sing to make her giggle. It wasn't the song she'd been trying to remember, but anything would do. She just needed to prove to herself that she hadn't forgotten _'__Amadan gòrach gòrach, amadan gòrach saighdear. Amadan gòrach gòrach, chunna mi 'g òl a-raoir thu' _She mouthed the words, not wanting to rouse Monroe by singing repeating it twice, she continued to count her freckles to the same tune. The world seemed so far away right now. There was nothing but the beautiful light and the feeling of her own fingers, gentle fingers, touching her skin. It'd been so long since she'd felt true gentleness. She chose to ignore and count around the dark purple spots, making sure not to poke the freckles around them too hard. She was so lost in thought that she hadn't heard him stop snoring, or noticed him sitting up in the bed.

It wasn't until he spoke that she even realized he was awake. "Ugh. What time is it?" He groaned.

Blair couldn't bring herself to look up immediately. If she looked up she'd be upset, and right now she didn't feel upset at all.

"McKenna." His voice called to her sternly, shattering the remaining surface on which her concentration had rested. She slowly raised her head, opting to look out the window instead of at him. He let out a low grumble of profanities that Blair couldn't completely understand but it ended in something, something, "McKenna Blair."

It isn't possible to accurately describe how angry she became in that instant. How dare he admonish her as though she were a child! She coolly glanced in the mirror beside her to look at him, thinking maybe it would hurt less to see his reflection… she was wrong. Fury stabbed at her gut, and fear clenched her heart at the sight of him. Blair shut her eyes tightly for a moment. No, she'd not be a coward. She'd not give him that sort of power over her. She turned her head to see the general was rubbing his face with one of his hands, still mumbling something about the time. Judging by the three generous glasses of scotch he'd had at dinner alone, Blair guessed he was nursing at least some manner of hangover. _'Let me use my fantastical time sensing powers. Stand back and be amazed… jack ass.'_ She quipped inwardly. How the hell was she supposed to know what time it was? Why would she talk to him even if she did? She could barely stand to look at him. He sickened her with his hypocritical politeness, his frigid blue eyes that watched her carelessly as she suffered, and his cruel hands that could to nothing but hurt. She hated him, so much that she felt like a young lass on the verge of a temper tantrum. His eyes flicked over towards her, and she did her best to cover herself from his far too casual gaze.

He snorted and thumped his back against the headboard, "Alright then."

Blair searched the room for her discarded dress, or absolutely anything that could hide her bruised body from him. She found it lying by the door and stood to retrieve it. Blair forced herself to walk over and scoop it up instead of diving for it like some sort of desperate, crazy person. Monroe's hand came out of nowhere, wrapping around her wrist suddenly. When had he gotten off the bed? Better yet, over to where she was standing? She hadn't even heard the floor squeak. The look in his eyes unnerved her as he observed her body in the light. There was something about his scrutinizing stare that made her want to cover herself even more. She didn't want him to regret last night. Well, that wasn't true. She wanted him to regret last night because he'd fucked her under such dubious consent, while she was upset and not even the slightest bit wet or ready for him. She did NOT want him to look at her in the light and decide that practically raping her had been a mistake he'd made after too much alcohol, like some bitch you take home because you're desperate and its last call. She already felt cheap and used, and she wasn't sure she could take his disgust. Especially when _she_ was the one that should feel disgusted looking at _him_.

He pulled the black garment out of her hands and dropped it back to the floor, pulling her bare body closer to his by her wrist. Blair almost flinched but restrained herself. She trembled as one of his fingers tenderly traced an old scar on her hip. Vomit stirred like frenzied fish in her gut, jumping and flailing more frantically with every touch. He looked far from happy with his intense, icy blue eyes following his finger. Was he upset that he had just fucked damaged goods; that she hadn't told him she was scarred? She had just assumed that he knew. Everyone had scars these days from all sorts of different things. His thumb started to rub soft circles over the skin of her hip. _'No,'_ She thought to herself, feeling her body tense in fear, which Monroe took note of. She didn't care to try and hide it either. He couldn't possibly want to go again. This was a onetime thing right? They fuck, she gets to spend the night in a bed like a normal human being, he agrees not to kill Hanes' wife, and then he throws her back into a hole in the ground. That was the agreement right? Or had she given the man a green flag to toss her up against the wall, or throw her on the bed, at any whim and use her like trash? They hadn't really discussed this. It wasn't like they'd drawn up a contract or something.

She looked away from him and he cleared his throat to try and draw her attention back. "You should clean up." His voice was… soft? Fuck, she hated it when he tried to pretend like he was a gentleman. The saying confused her too. Clean up? Why? By this afternoon she'd have some sort of blood spray or bodily fluid splattered all over her again, so why wash off? Though the more she thought about it the more trying to her damnedest to wash… him off of her was sounding like a lovely idea.

"McKenna—" He started but she abruptly cut him off.

"_Don't _call me McKenna. It was my grandmother's name. _My _name is Blair. That is the only thing I will answer to." It came out much more hatefully than she'd intended, and she instantly flinched in anticipation of violence… but it never came. When she looked up at him he just looked contented with the fact she'd actually spoken to him.

He shook his head and chuckled for the second time this morning, but she could see it in his eyes… she was trying her luck and soon it would run out. For a brief moment he stuck his head outside the door and said something to one of the guards who could be heard clomping down the hall immediately on his command, and then he returned to her side.

"How did you get these scars?" He asked absentmindedly.

What a stupid question. Her scars got there the same way anyone else's did. Something opened her skin, and as it healed it made a scar. It happens to everyone. She almost told him just how stupid of a question it was, but physically bit her tongue to fight off the urge.

"Most of them from foolish things," She said quietly, pointing to her hip and the scar he'd been tracing only seconds ago, "Some guy tried to jump me with a knife. This one," She stopped again, to point to what looked like a bite mark, circling around her leg below the knee, "Was made by a whale."

Blair turned her head away from him as he raised his eyebrows in intrigue, "A whale?" '_Did I stutter?' _The redhead snipped to herself, but didn't respond to his question. She didn't want to talk to him. There were other scars, but she didn't feel like explaining every nook and cranny of her body. She had only said that much because she feared he may lose his temper.

He took her left arm in his hand and held it up. "What about this?" He asked, tapping his finger against her metal band. She tried to pull her arm away but he only tightened his grip and gave her a warning glare.

"My grandfather. He was a scientist. It was an experiment." She hissed; this was not something that was open for discussion. As always, he either didn't catch the hint or he did not care.

"Your grandfather experimented on you?"

"He was a sick, insane man." She was on the verge of shouting, and Blair never shouted, "He said that it was going to '_take their pitiful little capsules and make something better'_, whatever that meant, and that it would be able to heal almost anything."

Suddenly, he seemed much more interested in the conversation, and much less interested in her breasts, which he had been openly staring at, "Does it work?"

"Oh yes, I'm growing a new tooth as we fucking speak. Of course it doesn't work! Did you miss the part where I said he was insane?!" She jerked herself so violently away from him that in his surprise he lost his hold on her. That made him furious; she could see it in his eyes.

"Did it ever work?" He demanded, approaching her even as she backed away. She wasn't much of a runner. Up until now she'd just let them do what they please with her, but this was different. After all he took from her, he wanted more?

Her fists clenched at her sides, "You mean before the blackout? Not how it was supposed to. I told you. It was an _**experiment.**_ My grandfather was _**crazy **_and _**cruel.**_ When the power shut off, something inside it dug into me, into my skin… and I haven't been able to take it off since." She cursed the tears that treated to come out of her eyes. Tears of sadness, pain, fear, anger, she just felt the overwhelming urge to cry.

True to her suspicions that Monroe was in fact crazy, his face shifted from angry, to contemplative, then something mimicking sympathy (which she didn't believe he could truly feel). He sat down on the edge of the bed as someone knocked timidly on the door. An elderly woman scurried into the room, ignoring the fact that they were naked, and that Blair was cowering against the wall, and waved to a group of men following her with buckets of steaming water. They stomped into the bathroom, where Blair could hear the water slosh into a tub, then rushed out for more without bothering to close the door. Blair was mortified. Between the old woman, the four men following her, and the two guard who pretended not to look outside the door, that was a total of seven people that had just seen her naked. Bruises, breasts, filth and all. She covered her face with her hands, trying to block out the indignity. Monroe didn't seem to care at all, but why should he? He wasn't the one who had been stripped and used like a common street whore.

The group entered the room for a second, and final, time before addressing Monroe respectfully and leaving. From the entry to the bathroom he tried to soothe her, like a lover or a friend might. It made her sick.

"You have no reason to be afraid. My men would never touch you… and you definitely don't have any reason to feel shy."He said, gesturing to the now closed door.

Blair pinched the crook of her nose so hard it was painful. She was getting a headache. Without looking up, she could hear him take a few tentative steps forward.

"You're so beautiful." He mumbled, more so to himself, Blair was sure. Even if it had been meant for her, compliments from his mouth sounded more like callous slander.

"I'm not afraid. I am _**ashamed**_. Forgive me for holding on to the few shreds of dignity I still have. You wouldn't understand because you aren't the one that looks like this." She waved a hand up and down the length of her body. She was, of course, referring to the purple splotches that were littered across her once pale flesh.

The General frowned, "I'm sorry, I got carried away."

Blair laughed in response, a dark, humorless laugh. "You're going to apologize for the bruises?" She stopped to laugh again. Loudly, like a mad woman she laughed, clutching her sides as they cramped up.

Monroe's face gnarled and twisted into a mixture of shock/anger. He began to storm across the room towards her, but this time she didn't back down, she had nowhere to go anyway. She felt like a crazy person, shifting from not caring at all, to feeling too much in only moments. Back and forth, like a pendulum. Was she hyperventilating? No, but damn close to it.

"You! _You_, whose men beat me, starved me, drowned me, and nearly murdered me. You're sorry for this?! I don't need your—"

She was abruptly stopped by his hand, striking her so hard that her head hit the wall. She winced, it was almost the exact same spot she'd hit it last night. Her joyless laughter stopped immediately and she froze.

"I'm TIRED OF THIS!" He shouted so deafeningly that Blair flinched, and brought her hands up to protect herself. His voice was unbelievably loud, bouncing off the walls and making her ears ring.

One of his hands reached up to tighten around her throat, "I'm done with your disrespect! With your tantrums!"

He shook her by her neck, and she cried out as best as she could, only to have him grip her harder. She couldn't breathe! Was he finally going to do it? Was she finally going to die? What a terrible way to die, naked and bruised with blood in her hair and bodily fluid dried on her thighs, yet part of her still rejoiced at the thought.

"You **will** show me respect!" He was a little quieter, but still yelling.

Black spots dotted her vision and she wasn't sure if it was excitement or terror that bubbled in her chest as she became light-headed. It was happening. This was really it. Out of sheer reflex and instinct, she reached out and pounded on his chest with one of her fists, which did not help her situation.

"_**I **_am the general here. We do things _**my**_ way! The sooner you stop throwing your little fits, the better your life will be." He literally threw her onto the ground. Her body made a loud thump as it fell against the hardwood.

Was that it? The black spots began to disappear; the light-headedness was going away. No! No he hadn't done it! She sobbed, placing her face into her hands and crying freely for the first time since they'd brought her here. She'd been so close, if he'd just held on a bit longer! Why was it taking so fucking long to just die?! He was pacing behind her, mumbling to himself. She cried out when he rested his hand on her shoulder, but the noise was born of instinct, not fright.

When she didn't turn to look at him, the General stood up and sighed. "Someone will bring you breakfast. Go and take your bath." He said, abruptly pulling on a uniform from his closet and putting it on like he was in a race. Before he left, she heard him take a deep breath, as though he were about to speak again, but he thought the better of it and quietly slipped out of the room.

Blair cursed herself for being so ridiculous, so foolish and weak as to cry like a child at this man's feet. She lay in the same position as she had landed, her body quaking from her violent sobs. He'd gotten what he wanted. She hadn't dared to say anything else to him. He'd won that battle. She had been thoroughly intimidated by his violence. It was fear, she decided, that she had felt when his hand was wrapped around her throat, squeezing the life from her, but it was disappointment she felt now. Alright, so maybe dying would be frightening, but that didn't mean she didn't prefer death to this. By now, she seriously doubted the possibility of being put back into her cell to suffer physical torture. He was cleaning her up, feeding her 'breakfast', and hadn't said anything about her going back below ground. She liked it much more down there than she did up here. Down there she'd had understood things. They wanted something, she refused, they hurt her, and they left her alone. The end. It was all so clear, what they expected what part she had to play. Up here was different. Up here, he had wanted something from her and he had gotten it. Now there would be nothing to stop him from taking from her over and over again. It would never end until he got everything he wanted, or he got bored. She prayed to whatever deity was out there, his attention span was short lived. How much would he get from her? Would she crack and tell him about SJ? No! No she'd never tell him a thing about his son! She'd **never **let this man hurt her brother.

She finally picked herself up off of the floor, and trudged into the bathroom. The water was still steaming when she slipped into it, but the warmth could not penetrate her cold, battered spirit. She scrubbed her skin raw, but it wasn't enough to remove the feeling of his hands on her. Methodically she washed the blood from her hair and then leaned back against the warm porcelain tub, closing her eyes. She hadn't slept much at all last night. Usually that didn't affect her much, but she felt so drained today. How long had she even been up? An hour at the most. Her little heart-to-heart with Monroe hadn't been that long. She wanted to sleep, to dream. Maybe her dreams would be more pleasant. Maybe she'd dream of her family or something beautiful… like autumn. What a beautiful thing the fall season was, not embracing the smothering heat of summer or the Antarctic cold of winter. It burst with colors of all different hues. There weren't many colors here. This room (which clearly had not been a bathroom before the militia took over) was painted in one shade of dark forest green. The floors were the same hardwood as the bedroom. She doubted she would find it beautiful even if such horrible memories weren't attached. Blair closed her eyes again and sighed, she would think about autumn and maybe she would sleep.

Her rest was short lived, and she was summoned to the door (which she had locked) by a maid frantically pounding against it. Blair stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around herself. She didn't care how many people had seen her naked this morning, it wasn't about to happen again. The door swung open so abruptly that the maid nearly punched her with her still knocking hand. Blair sent her a chilling glare, making the woman step back nervously. It was the old woman from before.

"I'm sorry." She said gently, holding up her hands to show she meant no harm. Blair only rolled her eyes and slipped past her.

"You were in there for a long time. I was making sure— oh my! Look at you! You're red from head to toe! Oh, I had no idea the water was so hot. I am so, so sorry. This will never—"

"I don't care." Blair said blandly, sitting down in a chair by the fire-place. Had the water really been that warm? It didn't feel like it. Sure enough though, her arms and legs were red as a lobster.

"Would you like me to light that for you miss?" The woman said kindly, motioning to the fireplace with her hand. Why was she being so nice to her?

Blair just looked out the window, "Don't call me miss."

"Oh! I'm sorry Ma'am."

"And definitely don't call me ma'am. My name is Blair." How many more times would she have to say that today?

The old woman made a tutting sound, and lit the logs anyway, before picking up her dress from the night before and laying it across the arm of the chair. "Now the tailor won't be able to get here until later today. So just put this back on for now, and get some rest. I'll bring up some vinegar tonight for your bath. It'll help those bruises."

"The what won't be able to get here?" Blair asked, tilting her head in confusion. Maybe the bump on her head was now impairing her hearing. What on earth would she need a tailor for?

"The tailor dear, to fit you for some clothes. You can't walk around in the same dress for the rest of your life." The woman replied nonchalantly.

She began stripping the bed of its dirty sheet and pulling a new one on. Blair turned her head sharply at the sight of her blood flecked across the crisp white cloth. With a shaky, wrinkled hand the old woman patted the bed and folded back one corner of the comforter.

"Why don't you dress and get back into bed. I'm sure the General wouldn't mind if you had breakfast here."

Ok, now her head hurt. Blair didn't hide her shock. What the hell was this? Did this woman know that at this time yesterday she was covered in filth and wearing pants soiled with her own bodily fluids? This time yesterday they probably hadn't even bothered to give her water, better yet food. Now she was having breakfast in bed? It was some sort of trick. She played enough mind games to know when someone was messing with her head, but as to what Monroe hoped to accomplish, she had no clue. Was he trying to get her to like him? What purpose could that possibly serve? She'd already agreed to fuck him, and he seemed to enjoy that well enough without her liking him. Maybe he thought that she would tell him more about SJ if she liked him? That had to be it.

Apparently the old woman didn't have time for her to get lost in thought. She flitted over to where Blair was seated and began to slide the dress over her head as though she were some sort of invalid. In an act of uncharacteristic violence, Blair struck the woman across the arm and scurried away from her. How dare this woman touch her? Blair didn't want anyone to touch her. If she could make it through the rest of her life without the feeling of anyone's hands on her again, she was certain she'd be happy.

The woman bowed her head slightly, shooting her a pitying glance and setting the dress down on the chair, "Come along now, and let's get you back to bed."

Blair turned away and pulled the dress on quickly before hesitantly walking back to the bed, trying to ignore the memories of last night. She laid down tensely, propping herself against the headboard, and pulling the covers over herself.

"Alright, you sit tight. Ha ha, I made a little rhyme." The maid said with a hopeful smile.

Blair only closed her eyes in response. She'd had enough of this congenial company, and company over all for that matter. Right now she wanted to be alone.

"Ok… I'll have them bring your breakfast right up." The woman said as she knocked on the doors for the guards to let her out. Blair wanted to tell her not to bother. She didn't even want food. The feel of this bed reminded her of the feeling of him, and it sickened her. She'd have been more than fine eating in the chair, or even the bathroom.

Blair traced the molding around the door with her misty grey eyes. They were just simple, pretty little curls. It felt like only seconds had passed when she heard the men at the door stir and the latch click as the handle twisted around.

"Soup is on! Well… not soup. Eggs, ham, bacon and milk are technically on." She recognized Jeremy Baker's voice anywhere. So they were still going to torture her? Her eyes cracked open and she almost slapped him out of surprise. What was with these people and sneaking into her personal space?

"Unless you're here to tear out more of my teeth or drown me in the pitcher of milk, stay at an arm's length _Captain_." She warned but Baker only laughed. For a man that had watched her be brutally beaten, he had a very sunshiny disposition.

He smiled at her and set a tray of food over her lap, "You're probably starving."

"Literally? That's possible. I'm sure there have been many days you've withheld food from me… but I'm not hungry… So go the hell away." Baker completely ignored her, whistling some annoying tune as he poured a glass of milk for her.

"I think I liked you better when you didn't talk," He quipped as he set the glass down on the tray. Blair resisted the extremely immature urge to spill everything on the God-awful green militia uniform he was wearing. It wasn't worth the pain that it would undoubtedly bring her.

Baker laughed again, Blair hadn't noticed anything funny, "Ah, there is the creepy silence I'm used to from you but a little too soon. You and I need to have a little chit-chat."

Blair opened her mouth and pointed inside, resisting the urge to smile when Jeremy raised his eyebrow in confusion.

"You'll have better luck working on my other teeth than you will with this conversation." She snipped.

Then, Baker did the unthinkable. He literally shoved a giant forkful of food into her mouth, and then proceeded to chortle as she struggled to swallow. She smacked his arm away from her face, desperately attempting to chew the unexpected intrusion so that she could shout at him.

"Aww come on, don't be a pouter. Monroe says you gotta eat, just helping you out." He said, looking genuinely surprised when she didn't spit it back at him.

"We aren't friends." She managed to choke out before taking a drink of milk to wash down the remaining food in her throat.

Jeremy put on a face of mock sadness, "That really hurts, can't you see I'm trying?"

"Because you _want _something. I'd prefer you just spit it out and leave me alone like you did up until yesterday."She said blandly. Baker's face sobered up, no longer the picture of sunshine and rainbows it had been seconds ago.

He looked back towards the door and shouted to some men outside, "Bring her in!"

Through the dark double doors they pulled a woman who looked very similar to Mrs. Hanes and shoved her onto her knees by the end of the bed. Blair frowned, now what were they playing at?

"Here is how this is going to go. I'm going to ask you once, where General Monroe's son is, and if you don't tell me." Baker paused to pull out his gun, "I'm going to shoot her."

With that, one of the soldiers holding her bent down to rip a cloth gag from between the woman's teeth. She immediately began begging for her life, placing her hands on the edge of the bed by Blair's leg. Blair eyed the silvery pistol. It was smooth and shiny, in direct contrast to his dull skin that was beginning to wrinkle ever so slightly from age. The safety was still on, and he made no move to flick it off. He must not have actually planned to use the gun. She pursed her lips tightly, and placed her hands over her lap. So this was the game now? They were just going to shoot people until she told them where SJ was?

"I have a family." She sobbed pitifully, "P-please I have a husband and a mother who is very sick. She needs me to take care of her." Her voice trailed off, disappearing into a fit of wails and cries.

Blair looked her over skeptically. Whoever she was, they hadn't been keeping her for long. She was mostly clean, only a patch of dirt here or there, probably from when she tried to escape her captors. She had a bruise on her cheek and a scrape on her forehead which went all the way back into her long blonde hair. Who was she? Some poor woman who just happened to be walking down the street at the wrong time? How many more had Monroe rounded up in an attempt to bend her to his will?

Blair turned to look at Baker, who was staring coldly back at her, like this was all her fault somehow. "What do you think this will accomplish?" Blair asked slowly, forcing her emotion down. She wanted to pity this woman… but she couldn't afford to.

Baker cocked his gun, "I think you know the answer to that question… You're going to save her, just like you saved Mrs. Hanes last night. Now… where is Sebastian Monroe's son?" His voice was stern, more so than it had ever been with her. Usually Baker had been an observer, more so a baby-sitter in her torture sessions. He made sure no one went too far… as best he could.

Blair looked down at her woman, shaking off her hands when they grasped her wrist. "You're an idiot… and your general is an idiot. What is this woman to me? Why would I ever put her life before that of my family?"

She said slowly, flicking her gaze down to meet that of the teary, mess of a creature on her knees before the bed. "She has a family too." Baker bit back, but it didn't faze the redhead, "You're really going to kill this woman just to keep a man from his son?"

"No. You are going to kill her. Hand me the gun and I'll gladly turn it on anyone else in this room before I will her." Blair paused and tilted her head, "What has she done? What terrible crime has she committed that gives you the ability to slaughter her like livestock?" Baker didn't respond. She saw his jaw clench in anger though, and his finger twitched on the trigger as his thumb released the safety.

"I'd bet anything that she hasn't done anything. Yet you're ready and willing to kill her. You're toy soldiers… all of you. You kill without prejudice, turning your gun on men, women, evil and innocent whenever you are told to. So don't blame me. Don't try to screw with my head. I will not take fault for being a bystander to your blood-sport. Kill her if you want… but it will be _**you**_ who kills her, not me."

Blood sprayed and the gun let off an ear shattering bang as the woman fell lifelessly to the floor. Baker was shaking in anger, looking down at the corpse bleeding onto the hardwood. "Go ahead and bring another when he tells you too, kill another one when he tells you too, now that I know how serious you are," She mocked cruelly, "My answer will always be the same to you, and to Monroe. I will do absolutely anything to keep you from finding my family because of what you are, and what you do… Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone… the company is far more enjoyable that way."

* * *

Sebastian groaned inwardly. He couldn't focus on anything. It didn't help that he had a stack of papers a mile high in front of him. He hated paperwork. Nothing in the world seemed worse than sitting here reading tax reports and letters from his officers out in the field, especially when he had something so much more interesting just down the hall. Last night still seemed like a dream… or maybe a nightmare. It had been both wondrous and terrible. He'd been shocked by the bruises this morning. By no means had he ever been a gentle lover, but he'd been excessively rough last night, even worse considering it was her first time. Her first time with a man at least. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wanted to be angry, and to toss her aside. It would be a great excuse to just get rid of her and the emotional shit-storm that she'd come with. But he didn't really feel angry, no matter how badly he wanted to. All he felt was passion and want. He wanted her again. He'd wanted her this morning. She was so beautiful and she was his now, but there had been so many things he wanted to know.

Bass still hadn't absorbed the conversation in its entirety. Somewhere between jumping into the sea to swim with whales, a man with a knife, and her grandmother's name, she had said something about her grandfather using her as a glorified lab rat. The thought made his stomach lurch. Before the blackout she'd said. She would have only been a child. How could someone experiment on their own family, even if it was for a good cause? He'd never let his child take any sort of medicine or use any type of technology that hadn't been thoroughly tested… by someone else. Preferably someone he didn't really care about.

He let her raise her voice to him because he'd felt sorry for her… and because he was cautious about hurting her anymore. Then he choked her. That would be a hell of a thing to get past in their relationship. Rough sex was one thing, one could learn to love it or at least get over it, but blatant domestic violence was different. She just kept pushing it though! He had been so lenient with her this morning. He'd been absolutely nothing but kind, and she kept throwing it back in his face! She had to learn to respect him first, and then they could move on with their lives. Bass had plenty of time to get her to like him further on down the road. It wasn't like he was ever going to let her go. No, he'd made that mistake with Emma. He'd walked away from Emma when he should have kept her by his side. If he had then he probably wouldn't be in this mess. Emma would be alive and well if he'd have stayed to care for her. She wouldn't have betrayed him like Miles. They'd have raised their son together. Screw power, screw the militia, Bass would have gladly surrendered all of it for his family. He smiled a brief, twisted smile. Maybe this was some sort of strange karma shit. Maybe the universe had sent him Blair in the absence of Emma, to start over. Not only to get his remaining family together again, but maybe even to start a new one… but he was getting a head of himself. He had paperwork to do!

The doors to his office swung open just as Bass had finally managed to put his mind back on the tax reports at hand. A few soldiers filed in, escorting a wiry young mail-carrier with a bag stuffed to the brim with papers. It looked more like he'd been hoarding people's letters instead of sending them. The man adjusted his glasses and began to sift through the sea of documents.

"There is a letter for you sir." He said as he jerked a thick envelope from one of the compartments and held it out toward Bass. The General frowned, since when did he take letters from civilians?

"I only take letters from my officers, or from other commanding forces affiliated or at war with the Monroe Republic. Why did you let him in here?" He snapped at one of his guards.

The mail-carrier set the letter on his desk anyway, "I was told this letter was urgent sir by a one," He pulled out a clipboard and looked down the list, "Sebastian James Bennett…. He claimed to be your son."

Bass practically leaped across his desk and tore open the letter. The parchment was old but the writing was in flawless cursive.

_To General Monroe,_

_Or should I call you dad? No, I shouldn't. I don't even know you. By now they've probably told you who sent this letter. My name is SJ or Sebastian James Bennett and apparently, I'm your son. I know right? It's as much of a shock to me as it is anyone else. Mom told me that my dad died in a war before the blackout._

_Introductions aside, I want you to know that I know you're looking for me… and I know you've taken my sister. If my wife wasn't pregnant with our first kid, I'd have already come to get her back. But my wife is pregnant, and I have an obligation to take care of her. I can't trust you, not after everything I've seen the militia do to people over the years. I've heard so many stories about you. They say you're ruthless. I won't risk my wife and baby by coming to see you. You'd never let me go._

_But I swear on my life I will get my sister back. If you hurt her… God have mercy on your soul. And if you kill her, then I'll find some way, any way I possibly can to kill you. She has never done anything to you and she doesn't deserve to be punished for trying to protect me. She doesn't even know where I am now. We have protocols you see. You're an army guy, you should understand. When one of us goes missing, or sends a letter saying they are deliberately planning to be captured by the militia, the rest of us have a plan that we stick to. By the time this letter gets to your mail-carrier, it'll have gone through four others, around mountains and through valleys. I will be long gone by the time you read this._

_Maybe, if you let my sister go, I will see it as a sign that you can be trusted and I'll find you but only once I am sure you are not a threat to my family._

_Signed, SJ Bennett_

_PS, I feel like I should warn you about Blair, for the sake of her safety. Maybe it'll even convince you to let her go. You don't know her. Anything you think you know, is wrong. Without her family, there is a good chance she'd going to lose what little stability she had and come unhinged. There is something __wrong__ with her, legitimately. You don't need the threat I'm sure she will pose. Let her come back home, where she will be safe and won't endanger anyone around her. She is sick. Please, I just want my family back together._

Down the hall there was a woman's scream and a gun fired off as Bass set down the letter. Moments later two men walked past the open doorway, a body wrapped in a bloody sheet. Baker was close on their heels but stopped at the entrance to his office.

He quickly shot a look at the general, "She had me kill her. She looked me right in the eyes… she didn't even flinch."

* * *

_"I don't care about whose DNA has recombined with whose. When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching-they are your family." _  
_― Jim Butcher, Proven Guilty_

* * *

**_Well, you've now got some insight on Blair. There is a lot more back story to cover, but we will get to that within the next couple of chapters. Also I'm hoping to show Bass' sad/broken crazy side instead of just his angry/obsessed one soon. As always thanks to everyone who reviews this story, or reads it, or believes that the show should never ever kill off Bass... that last part has nothing to do with my story but I know we were all thinking it._**


	6. The Elephants in a Room

**I've never written a story this fast in my life, and I'm not sure why I am now, nor am I sure it's a good thing but this story seems to have a life of it's own. It's funny because this started out as a writing exercise for me. I noticed that really needed to work on one of my male OC's (who is basically SJ in this story), and thought I would plug him into the fandom I was currently obsessed with, which is how he became Monroe's son. Somehow, what was meant to be a writing exercise between Monroe's son, his girlfriend, and Bass himself, turned into this. I like it for the most part. I've never written a story like this, so it's interesting. Anyway, I'll shut up.**

**LIES! Really quick I want to thank anyone who leaves a review, it is always extremely encouraging to see people are reading and liking what I write. Most importantly thanks to Valantha, my beta reader, who despite a really busy week helped me out with this chapter.**

* * *

"_I think I fell in love with her, a little bit. Isn't that dumb? But it was like I knew her. Like she was my oldest, dearest friend. The kind of person you can tell anything to, no matter how bad, and they'll still love you, because they know you. I wanted to go with her. I wanted her to notice me. And then she stopped walking. Under the moon, she stopped. And looked at us. She looked at me. Maybe she was trying to tell me something; I don't know. She probably didn't even know I was there. But I'll __**always**__ love her. __**All my life**__."__  
__―__Neil Gaiman__,__The Sandman, Vol. 8: Worlds' End_

* * *

_She could hear her voice, but she couldn't feel herself singing. She couldn't feel her body at all for that matter. Where was she?_

"_O chì, chì mi na mòr-bheanna_

_Her own voice was sure and still, drawing her through the nothingness towards something. A light! A little fire dancing in the distance. As Blair approached, trees started to form in the shadows, and blurry stars could be seen through the thinning autumn canopy. A sense of dread doused her like frigid water. Something was familiar… where was she? __  
_

_O chì, chì mi na còrr-bheanna_

_Nothing but the sound of her own voice and the surprisingly loud crackle of the fire could be heard. It was like she was in a never ending ocean of trees, where nothing moved or lived. She was alone with her own song… so why did she feel so frightened? Blair tried to call out… but she had no voice of her own to speak with.  
_

_O chì, chì mi na coireachan_

_Blair suddenly tried to stop herself from moving forward. Not here. She couldn't be here! In a flash of light she stood in a clearing. Before her, sitting on an old log, sat a carbon copy of herself… and Isadora. Oh beautiful, celestial Isadora with her dark eyes and caramel colored skin! Isadora with lips of silk and curves of a sloping valley. Isadora, whom everyone thought was gorgeous… especially Blair. _

_Chì mi na sgoran fo cheò"_

_Isadora's eyes never left the Blair she was currently sitting beside. They were both smiling euphoric smiles. Those stupid, silly smiles you wear when you are caught up in love and embraced by its warmth. She wanted so desperately to escape the sight of it, to run from the image of such love that she knew she would never feel again. Even if she ever made it out of here, even if she ever fell in love again, there was only one Isa. What they had was strange, volatile, wild, and possessive… but addictive. Past the angry fights and biting words, there were moments like this. _

_The scene twisted. Her voice skipped verses, shot straight back into the chorus. Blair begged her eyes to close, to turn away. Why couldn't she just turn away? _

_A man burst through the bushes, eyes filled with terror and on the verge of madness. She couldn't understand what he was saying, the words were all blurred together but Isadora and her other self clearly understood, and they were afraid. Damn it why don't you just run now? Your horses are fast! He was only one man._

_Suddenly his words became clear, bouncing and echoing forebodingly through the forest. "__**Do you know what they do to traitors? To people who run from them?! I tried to get away without their noticing… but it didn't work. They're going to catch me." **__Let me shut my eyes, don't make me see this. Blair pleaded with herself. Isa was on her feet, shouting for him to leave them be. They hadn't broken any of the militia's laws and they didn't want to be involved with them! __**"But if I ran off after thieves. Thieves trying to steal militia gold…" **__He rambled madly, his eyes glazed over in the firelight. His eyes were huge. For a moment all she could see was his eyes, glowing before the trees. She screamed, but still no sound came out._

_Now the other her was on her feet, pleading. When had she ever looked so afraid of anything in her life? Had she ever felt such terrible fear again? The world came back into focus. Isadora was shouting something, shoving the other her away but she refused to move. From his side, the man pulled a gun, aiming it at them with trembling hands. _

_The gun's fire was so loud Blair felt the world shake around her, trees fell, the fire erupted and Isa screamed. Everything was turning red. Blood. Blood was everywhere. Like a dam had burst and blood was flowing from it. Isadora was lying on the ground, motionless against the bloody grass. Faces stared to emerge from the darkness as Blair watched her other self dive over the body of the woman she loved, screaming desperately. The gun fired again, and Blair watched herself howl in pain. She saw her own hands tremble, going from her own body to Isadora's and back again, unsure what she should be doing with them. _

_And then she was in that body. She could feel the pain, the fear, the utter desperation. Instead of faces there were feet, a sea of feet around her and the voices of many men. Isa's eyes darkened and Blair felt her chest stop heaving for air. Her throat burned she screamed so loudly. This couldn't happen to her. God, if you're there, if you have any shred of mercy within you, don't let this be happening. The voices were drowned out by her frantic cries but she could feel their hands, lifting her, tearing her away. Did they not understand?! Did they not understand how much Blair loved this woman? Couldn't they feel this soul-consuming pain? _

_And then there he was again, she could see him through the sea of men around her. Him. _

_**I'll repay you for this cruelty! I swear to God! If it is the last thing I do… I'll kill you for this.**_

* * *

"_When the love of your life dies, the problem is not that some part of you dies too, which it does, but that some part of you is still alive."__  
__―__Jackie Kay__,__Trumpet_

* * *

Charlotte Matheson hated the fucking militia. She hated Monroe, she hated his men, and everything associated with them. How the hell had she gotten into all of this in the first place? How did she go from being a normal girl in a small village to a prisoner in shackles? Yes, shackles. Monroe was so fucking paranoid that she was going to hurt someone or try and escape that he'd shackled her hands, and her feet, then he connected the two with a long chain. Now, she could barely lift her hands over her waist. The feeling of her arms at her sides was a distant memory now. The chains were heavy too. Sometimes, out of nowhere her arms would start to cramp so horribly that she screamed in pain, but they never took them off. They didn't care if she was in any pain, if they did, they wouldn't constantly torture her.

Today they had loosened her leg chains so that she could walk easier before taking her out of her cell for the first time in… she couldn't even remember. The sunlight seemed cruelly bright now as they lead her from the beautiful corridors of Independence Hall outside for the first time. Charlie wasn't sure where they were taking her. The last time they took her from her cell she'd been led straight to Monroe's office but not this time. She was in completely new territory now, and it frightened her. For the past few months her life had been so consistent. Darkness and pain. Those things were all she'd known since the day they'd captured her. Now she was out in the sunlight, walking down a tattered cement path toward and awaiting cart, pulled by two tall bay horses cad in black leather tack with silver accents. Surrounding the cart was at least a dozen soldiers on foot, each holding an expensive fire-arm. Add her six current guards to these and there was a minimum of 18 people 'escorting' her, or more accurately, making sure she did not escape. The soldiers hoisted her into the cart and signaled to the driver to head off.

The wagon finally came to a halt in front of a militia check point. Oddly enough the soldiers in the cart jumped out, along with the driver, and they were replaced by another group of militia men that had been waiting at the gate. The number of people traveling with her was abruptly cut from 22 (Charlie had plenty of time to count them all one-by-one by now) to seven in a matter of minutes, and then with a flick of the whip the horses were pushed into a quick trot. She heard one of them grunt and the dull 'thunk' of a hoof as it half-heartedly kicked out against the cart before throwing its weight into the harness. Out of the corner of her eye, she briefly saw an old tattered sign that said Longwood Gardens in beautiful cursive letters.

This ride was considerably shorter as they trotted through the icy, winding pathways. She could only imagine this place during the spring when the barren flowerbeds bloomed with vibrant life and the hedges turned from gnarled brown clusters of branches into beautiful green bushes. They passed many old cement fountains that looked like they hadn't seen water since the blackout and a massive building, made almost entirely out of windows. She'd never seen anything so fantastically beautiful in her entire life… but she couldn't really enjoy it. The nagging question, 'why did they bring me here' wouldn't let her enjoy it. For the millionth time, she asked where the hell they were, but they ignored her.

Their final stop was a large house, which looked more like two houses to her. It was huge; made out of old red bricks and brilliant white archways. The house itself was stunning, but the excessive amount of soldiers standing at attention ruined it. Their presence tainted something that without them would have been splendid. The militia seemed to enjoy taking what was good and nice in this world and twisting it into something perverse. At least that is how it seemed to her. When she looked at the front lawn, she didn't see the massive trees or the snow on the ground; she saw tents filled with soldiers. It was insane to have this many people guarding her. Just how paranoid had Monroe gotten that he would need over 50 men to watch a house in the middle of nowhere?

They pulled Charlie from the wagon and up the stairs of the house, not bothering to knock before walking inside… which was strange. If this was Monroe's house or lair or whatever the hell they wanted to call it, then they wouldn't have dared stepped a foot in uninvited. They led her through a foyer and stopped at a dark hardwood door.

"Don't do anything stupid, General Monroe hasn't been extremely forgiving lately." Said the female guard who tightened her handcuffs even more, making them almost unbearably painful. When she was certain that there was no chance she could slip out of her restraints, the woman knocked twice on the door and then entered, motioning for her to follow. She was so stunned that instead of fighting them, she actually obeyed and followed. As much as she hated them, she was horribly curious as to what was going on right now.

She fully expected to see General Monroe sitting in a chair by the fireplace, watching her with his cold blue eyes… but she was wrong. Monroe wasn't by the fire, he wasn't even here. The only other person in the room was a pretty redheaded woman, sitting in a chair facing the window. The woman didn't address them when they came in, she didn't even turn her head. She looked… lost and vacant, like she was really somewhere far, far away from them.

"Ma'am." The soldier called to her, but still no response came. "Ma'am I've been given direct orders from the general to bring Miss Matheson here." Still nothing. The redhead simply blinked and continued to stare as though she could not hear them from her faraway place. Deciding to give it one more try, the soldier cleared her throat, "Miss Blair, the general told me to bring Miss Matheson here." The soldier said hesitantly. Was that fear Charlie heard in her voice? Fear of what? Just who was this lady? Monroe's wife maybe… but she looked a lot younger than him. In fact she looked much closer to Charlie's age than Monroe's.

The soldier was slow to leave, but finally admitted defeat, turning to march out the door without a glance behind. The door let out a soft 'click' as it shut behind her. The redhead didn't speak, instead opting to close her eyes and hum to herself. Charlie waited and waited, but "Miss Blair" didn't take any more notice of Charlie than she would a fly. Still weary, the blonde took a seat by the fire. It was warm in here, almost uncomfortably warm compared to the benumbing temperature of her cell and the frozen outdoor excursion she'd just been on. Charlie tried to enjoy the heat soaking into her chilled skin, leaning back into her chair with a gentle sigh and trying to not think about why she was here.

Pain shot through her arms when she tried to flex them, making her gasp and sink her teeth into her lip. She looked down angrily at her thin, battered wrists and futilely attempted to move them in spite of the thick shackles. It was no use, and trying was only making it hurt worse now that the bands had been tightened. She kicked a small pile of books by her feet and growled in frustration. Why the hell had she ever thought it was a good idea to storm off that night after The Tower… after Nora. She'd just been so angry. Nora had died, her mother had let Nora die… and for what? The power wasn't back on. Danny had not been avenged. Monroe still had access to pendants and amplifiers and he was still planning on continental, if not global, conquest. Anger was an understatement. She had been sickened, infuriated, and on the verge of seriously hurting someone (most likely her mother). Her mom… Charlie flinched just at the thought of her. Did Monroe let his men do the same things to her mother that he let them do to her? She didn't want to think about it.

Charlie opened her eyes and jumped in fright. The woman, Blair, was standing a few feet away from her chair, staring at her intently. Her posture was ramrod straight, her head was high, and her arms were crossed loosely over her chest. "If you're trying to scare me, it is going to take a lot more than that." Charlie snarled, shifting uncomfortably in her restraints. The redhead's expression did not change. "Those are cutting into your skin." Blair pointed out while kneeling down to run her fingers along the length of chain by Charlie's leg.

The blonde pulled her feet out of the woman's reach and scowled, "Was there a point I was supposed to get from that?" Blair tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly in confusion, "You know you can't shake them off," She said, pursing her lips, "And it hurts when you try… so why do you keep rattling them?"

Charlie laughed bitterly, "I don't know, maybe because I want to be free? Look, I don't know what game you're playing but… just stop. Tell Monroe that I wouldn't tell you anything, just like everyone else." As though she hadn't heard her, Blair scooted closer to her feet. For a moment the small woman was lost again, Charlie could see it all over her face. Something had distracted Blair from whatever she was planning on but with a shake of her head, she was back, glaring at the locks on Charlie's ankles. The redhead sat back onto her ankles, toying with a thick bandage on her left wrist. From it she pulled an old, safety pen and began to bend it out straight. Charlie shook her head and scowled, "Right. I get it. You're on my side? You're the good guy. Listen I already told you—"

"Do you plan on rustling these chains in rhythm?" Blair snipped in response, completely cutting off Charlie's snarky comment. She lifted the pin to her mouth and started to carefully manipulate it with her teeth, pulling it back and then readjusting it again until it was bent just the way she wanted it. The blonde blinked a few times. In rhythm with what? What the hell did that even mean? "I have no idea what you're talking about." Charlotte answered honestly, only to earn an annoyed sigh from Bair didn't who didn't speak, simply turned her focus to the locks. Charlie wiggled uncomfortably in her seat, "Listen, you can't just chew on an old pin and unlock my—" _click._ It was almost inaudible, but Charlie had definitely heard something in the lock turn. The shackles didn't loosen though, and Blair kept pushing and twisting the pin without pause. After a few minutes of concentration and a few colorful words from Blair, another click sounded and the cuffs loosened slightly. Blair had to manually open them the rest of the way, out of the small red groove in Charlie's flesh. The taller girl hissed in pain but managed to keep still as the redhead moved on to the next cuff. In minutes, Charlie was free for the first time in months. She nearly moaned at the feeling of free movement.

Charlie glared at her callously, "How do you know I won't kill you?" She hadn't expected Blair to react at all, and she definitely hadn't anticipated the flicker of longing in the small woman's eyes. With her thin, pale hands she pressed a length of the chain into Charlie's palms, forcing her fingers to grasp it. Blair woman was trembling with… was that excitement? No, that couldn't be it. Charlie took a deep, nervous breath and held it, pressing herself back into the chair behind her. What sort of sick game was this? "Please… I won't fight you." Blair promised, no begged, gripping the blonde's knees tightly. The redhead looked excited, happy, relieved… and Charlie felt nauseated watching her. This wasn't an act. It wasn't some game Monroe was playing with her (well, maybe in a roundabout way) this woman genuinely… she actually wanted to die and looked to Charlie as though she were some sort of savior, sent to deliver her. Charlie focused her glassy blue eyes on her lap, feeling tears trying to trickle out, "Thank you… for removing the cuffs."

Charlie could have sworn that she heard the woman cry out but when she looked up, Blair's face was still and passive. The small woman straightened her sweater and went back to the chair she'd been sitting at when Charlie had first come in. It was like the conversation had never happened.

Charlie tried to just brush off their strange interaction, and focus on herself. Why had they moved her here? Was Monroe trying to show her what happens to people after he'd kept them captive for a while? Was he trying to show her that this was her future? One day she would quit fighting them, she would do anything they asked and then sit, watching the outside world with no hope. Infuriated Charlie burst out of her chair and stomped around the room, searching for any means of escape. There were guards by the door, and no large air vents, the window was big enough to crawl out of, but it was locked. Even out of her chains she'd have a hell of a time escaping from here… better yet surviving. She'd been given an old, pre-blackout sweatshirt for the ride over here but she doubted that would be enough to shield her from the midwinter twilight. Running would mean no food, no shelter, and the possibility of contracting hypothermia and dying… but Charlie didn't care. She would rather die trying to escape Monroe and return to her family than to live like this.

The blonde growled in frustration and knocked a set of books off of one of the shelves. They plummeted noisily to the floor, landing haphazardly around her feet in a mass of twisted spines and fluttering pages. She went back to try the window a second time, checking for any weaknesses in the glass or the frame but found none. She hated this! Monroe was dangling freedom in front of her. At least in a cell she didn't see the world right there, right in her reach, but completely untouchable! She slammed her hand against the glass pane and let out another furious grunt.

"Do you know where the hell we are?" Charlie said, spinning around to look at Blair. The redhead tilted her head in contemplation and lightly pursed her lips, her hands twisting around nervously in her lap.

"Do you like elephants?" She asked, still not bothering to look over at Charlie.

"What's that?" Charlie snipped in reply, she was not in the mood to decipher whatever code Blair was speaking to her in.

"An elephant. It's an animal. Glorious creatures. They're smart, social, beasts and they're as big as a house. They lived across the ocean, completely wild. Once, a long time ago a man, I can only guess it was a man that would do such a thing, saw an elephant and said to himself, 'I think I'll have that for myself so that I can always look at it.' So they took the behemoths and carted them across the seas to live in what they called 'zoos'. Zoos put elephants, and exotic creatures like them, in big pens, with lots of food and toys and trees from their old home. Called them habitats." The redhead explained, as though her point were the most obvious thing in the world. "Emma once took me to a zoo. My mum would never have let me go you see. Mother was very odd about places like that. She was just plain odd… Oh yes, but Emma took us, my brother and I one day, we all painted a pot together in the gift shop. Wonderful day. Days don't come like that anymore. If I'd have only known then… well, I would have cried."

Great. She was talking to a crazy person. Charlie groaned and ran a hand through her long blonde hair, trying to be patient. "I'm sorry… but I don't know what you're talking about." Charlie confessed. She wasn't sure if she wanted to keep pressing this woman or not… crazy people have a tendency to snap if you say the wrong thing. Just look at Monroe. One second he's a civilized gentleman and the next he's forcing someone's mother to make an amplifier by threatening to kill her children.

Blair let out a long, exasperated sigh, "You asked me where we were. We're in a place much like a zoo, and we are much like elephants. We have food and water and things to play with, and we are in the most beautiful habitat. We have everything we could ever need to be happy… but we will never be happy." She paused and frowned sadly, "We will never be happy because we will never be free. For the rest of our lives, or at least I'm sure for the rest of mine, I will be forced to stare out at a world I can never touch, never be a part of again… because he'll always want to have me here to look at… to possess. And if I'd have known that when Emma took us to the zoo, I'd have cried for the elephants and turned my head in disgust." With that, Blair turned her head and began to sing in a low mournful voice, in a language Charlie didn't understand.

The blonde was desperately trying not to be affected by Blair's words… but they struck a chord that was eerily familiar. There was a faint memory in the back of her mind of her childhood, and her father setting her on top of his shoulders as her mom pointed at a massive spotted creature with a long neck. Uncle Miles was there too, holding Danny and sticking out his tongue to imitate the creature as it ate leaves from a tree. Everyone had been laughing and smiling. Did the animals see how happy the people were? Did they have feelings to understand how cruel their situation was? Could they feel bitterness and hatred at the sounds of laughter around them, mocking them in their pretty cages? Wasn't that what these soldiers did with her? They stood by the doors, keeping an eye out for trouble but speaking to each other about trivial things, about their days or something funny their kid had said, and then they went home after a 'good day' at work. It made her sick.

"Are you trying to screw with my head?!" Charlie shouted. She was angry, though she wasn't sure if it was with Blair or not. Unfortunately, the small woman was the only thing Charlie had to aim her ill temper at. The blonde began to pace, knocking a tea set from the end table and watching it break against the wood floor. "Monroe put you up to it huh? To come in here and mess with me? Well I'm not going to just lie down and LIVE like this! That isn't living at ALL! I want my family, and I want out of here. So tell Monroe to go fuck himself because I'm not falling for this shit!" She yelled determinedly. It hadn't been enough to get the Blair to stop singing, or even to look at her.

The door swung open and a soldier ran in, probably because of how much noise Charlie had been making. The color drained from the soldier's face when he realized that she was no longer in chains. "Put your hands in the air Miss Matheson and don't try anything stupid!" He warned, aiming his gun right at her heart. That was strange; Monroe had specifically been keeping her alive in hopes to find Miles and her mom. Why would this soldier risk killing her and suffering the general's wrath? "I said HANDS UP!" He yelled. Charlie reluctantly obeyed and the one soldier motioned to another with a jerk of his head. The second one quickly scurried to gather the chains from the floor. "How the hell did you get out of these?" He inquired but Charlie didn't answer.

"We were just talking." The blonde replied, ignoring the question. The soldier looked from Charlie to Blair and snorted, "You're lying. She doesn't talk unless General Monroe or Captain Baker make her… even then I've never heard her say anything. Now you're going to put out your wrists like a good little girl and come with me. I think that is enough play-time for today."

"Are you insinuating that I am a child?" Blair spoke up suddenly, her voice dripping with hostility. "Leave her alone. Leave me alone. Monroe said this was _my _house. Now get out!" She demanded, glaring menacingly over her shoulder at the two men, who froze at the sound of her voice. They'd heard her sing, almost constantly, but in the few days since Monroe had left her here, they hadn't heard her speak.

The bolder, and stupider, of the two men stood up tall and took a few steps forward, "Miss Matheson, let's go." His eyes wondered down the length of Charlotte's body in a way that made her sick. Charlie knew that look; it was one she got from men all of the time, and it never meant anything good. She straightened out her shoulders and put on a hateful glare, but stepped forward all the same. The burly man gave her a perverse smile and held out a hand for her to take in mock politeness. Charlie cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Blair, who was looking back at her with calm grey eyes.

It didn't take long for the soldier to grow tired of their silent stare down and reached for Charlie's arm. Blair turned away and laughed. She mumbled something under her breath but the only thing Charlie could catch was something about how pathetic the scene was… apparently all that the soldier heard was "pathetic", and he looked pissed about it. His jaw clenched and he walked away from the tall, lithe blonde to the small redhead sitting in the chair, ignoring him. In a short second, he went from one side of the room to the other, placing his hands on the arms of Blair's chair. His face hovered only inches from hers, but she didn't even blink in surprise.

"The General isn't here, so I'm going to give you some advice, and I suggest you listen here bitch. I—"

"And what if I prefer to listen there?" Blair said tonelessly, the expression on her face not changing at all. Charlie could see the soldier's grip on the chair tighten until his arms began to shake. His broad, scarred face contorted into an ugly scowl, turning a shade of light red.

"You think you're funny bitch?" He growled, hoisting her out of the chair by the front of her sweater.

"It's Blair actually. Yes I know they both start with B, it's an honest mista—" "Shut up!" The soldier shouted, jerking Blair by the shirt for good measure. Again, Blair laughed at him, but much louder this time, turning her attention back out the window. Charlie watched in shock… was Blair trying to piss this guy off? He was easily three if not four times her small size.

The redhead flicked her large grey eyes over toward the other soldier, who was standing dumbfounded in the corner, "It really is fascinating to me to see the great things the militia can do. Tell me, how did you train this gorilla to walk and talk, like an actual human being? Better yet a soldier. Say, you don't mind if I call him Mr. Bananas do you?" Horrified that Blair was clearly looking to him for an answer, the other soldier immediately busied himself with the length of chain in his hand.

The soldier holding Blair suddenly threw her against a bookcase and punched her in the gut, hard. Charlie could literally hear the breath being forced out of Blair's lungs in an instant. The blonde screamed out a couple of profanities and on instinct dove onto him, trying to stop his brutal attack, only to be restrained by the other man, who was yelling for help. The attacker pulled back his fist and hit Blair a second time, then a third, and then a forth before a few more men made it into the room to restrain him. Charlie could hear Blair coughing hoarsely even through all of the commotion.

"What the hell are you doing man?!" someone in the small crowd shouted. They were all calling him insane, telling him to just turn away. As soon as his body peeled away from her, Blair fell to the ground, clutching her ribs and violently gasping for air. Her long red curls fell down over her face as she hung her head and propped her upper body up with her right arm. The soldier's foot collided with her shoulder as they pulled him away, knocking her into the bookcase and causing a few of the books to slip from the shelf. Blair groaned when a sizeable leather bound book hit her head, but only stayed slumped against the bookcase.

"Let's go Miss Matheson!" A soldier said, pulling her away forcefully. Charlie glanced over her shoulder one more time, and she could have sworn she saw Blair smile at her.

* * *

Miles Matheson poured himself a drink. Today would mark the end of the Georgia Federation, which most likely meant the end of the rebellion as well. In one short day Bass had gotten it all. He now had money, power, and men… there wasn't a damn thing to stop him from taking the rest of the country, if not the rest of the continent. Running wasn't an option anymore… but Miles didn't feel like running even if he could. It wasn't worth it; nothing was worth it, because Charlie was gone. No body, no ransom, no trace of who took her, or if she was alive. How long had she been gone before he thought to go looking for her? At least a day. He thought that she needed time to cool off after the fight with Rachel.

Rachel. Oh Rachel… she was a fucking wreck now. The woman lived in two alternating states of emotion: denial, and fury. She refused to accept that her only remaining child was gone, opting to believe that Charlie just ran off and decided to never come back and to never let anyone see her so that she couldn't be found. Surprisingly, Rachel was much more dangerous in her denial than she was when she was angry or distraught. When she was broken down crying, or in a rage screaming, at least she accepted reality. That Charlie wasn't here, and she most likely wasn't alive. But when Rachel was in denial… Miles shivered and downed the rest of his drink. One wrong word could make her snap. She'd killed a man a week ago who had told her that it was hopeless. No upset, no anger, she just pulled out her gun and shot him (an innocent old man) right between the eyes. Miles wanted to help her so badly it hurt, but he couldn't do anything for her without getting blamed for what happened… and Miles couldn't take hearing it from Rachel; he heard it enough from himself.

Running a hand through his filthy brown hair, Miles decided to ditch the glass and go straight for the bottle. He didn't usually drink vodka, but that was all he had been able to get his hands on. It was hard to keep him supplied with alcohol these days; he drank even more now than he had after he ran from the militia. It couldn't make him happy, but it could at least make him numb, and if he managed to drink enough, unconscious. Soon there would be no place for him to hide. Bass would find him and kill him in cold blood, and he'd finally be out of his misery. He was tired of regretting everything from his past to his present. He was tired of being ashamed and trying to atone for what he'd become. So he would die like this, a filthy drunk. He'd finally accepted that… now if only he could get the alcohol down faster. He'd been searching for some good liquor since this morning and was only just getting around to heavy drinking today. Right now all he felt was a dull buzz that teased him with the promise of more.

There was a knock at the fragile, filthy door to his shitty room. They'd been staying in this inn for days now. It wouldn't be surprising if that was the militia already… though he wasn't sure why they would knock. Whoever it was began to fiddle with the door handle, trying to force their way in. They had no luck with the lock and began slamming the door with something, most likely their own shoulder. After three loud 'thumps' Rachel emerged from the bathroom, looking startled. Miles didn't know, and didn't care to think about what Rachel had been doing in there, seeing as the plumbing no longer worked. She was just about to say something to him when the poor door gave up and tore from its hinges. Miles saw Rachel reach for her gun, but didn't bother reaching for his.

A young man toppled through the doorway, swearing profusely and rubbing his shoulder. "Seriously?!" He panted, waving his free hand from Rachel to Miles, "You're seriously in here, just sitting here? You couldn't have just come and opened the door? I've tracked you for weeks, I came up three flights of stairs to this room, and you couldn't unlock the damn door? Fucking hell… Hold on… yup, I'm definitely going to cough up my lung." After a few more breaths he managed to straighten himself out and step into the light.

Miles sat up straighter in his seat, squinting his eyes. For a second he had looked just like… just like Bass. But the more he focused the more he could see that this wasn't his old brother. This man was younger, by many years, and his hair was a shade or two darker than Bass' was. His features were strong, but not as harsh and angry looking as Bass. He was well-built, with broad shoulders and thick muscles on his arms and legs. This kid looked familiar, but he definitely wasn't Monroe. He looked up at them with big, blue eyes, filled with relief and weariness.

Rachel didn't lower her weapon, "Who are you?" As always her voice was as still and even. The boy held up his hands, "Ok, yeah, I get that that, probably wasn't the best introduction. I'm not here to hurt you though… I need your help."

"And why the hell would I help you?" Miles growled, turning back to his bottle of vodka.

The kid chuckled, "Because my name is Sebastian James Bennett. Because my mother's name was Emma and she said that if I ever ran into trouble I couldn't handle, that I should come and find you. Because my sister has been captured by the militia. And because a contact of mine in Philadelphia said that Monroe was keeping a young woman matching your niece's description as a prisoner… now how 'bout you take that fuckin' gun off of me before I have to pull mine and someone does something stupid."

* * *

"_The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for."__  
__―__Bob Marley_

* * *

**_Well I tried to make Blair a little foreboding for once. She really isn't a nice girl to people she doesn't consider 'family' which means she doesn't like anyone but SJ and Florence. XD I promise she'll be more exciting in future chapters right now she's really checked out._**

**_ So if you're wondering, Longwood Gardens is an actual place, and Blair is staying in the old house on the grounds. I absolutely could not describe this house without it either sounding odd, or taking a long ass time. If you would like to see a picture of the house search_**_ **Peirce-du Pont House on google and it'll come right up. Let's face it, there is no way Miles could invade Philly again and not die. Escape just wouldn't be possible. Plus, this place really catches my fancy (I think that's the phrase), showing how Monroe can make something so beautiful into something ugly and perverse. Sorry that he wasn't in this chapter, he will be in the next one, and there will be at least one more sex scene before I wrap this story up.**_


	7. Breakups, Beasts, and a Bastard Child

**Alright then, finally eh? Well I'm back from my vacation... which wasn't actually a vacation -_-'. Why do people count visiting family as vacation? If you're family is anything like mine you know it is NOT the same thing. I love my family, I do, but I just spent over a week with no computer, in the city (which I loathe), trying to convince my grandfather to take his medicine, sorting through my grandmother's things because he's apparently getting rid off all her stuff and selling the house -_-, and playing counselor to my young cousin, while threatening her ex boyfriend that I'd murder him if he looked at her again. Dunno, maybe that is what other people do on vacation, but not me. Anyway... I said all of that for a reason, but then I got pissed and forgot what it was. Here is the damn chapter.**

**Fun fact, I wrote this before I left, but forgot to post it XD Thanks to Valantha for beta reading for me! **

* * *

**12 ½ years Before the Blackout**

* * *

"This just isn't working Miles." Emma said quietly, so quietly that Miles barely heard her over the commotion in the mess hall. It was quite literally the first thing she said when he'd picked up the phone. He was certain that he'd heard her wrong. It was just too loud in here; that was it. She must have said something like, "I like the way you work out Miles." Or anything, _anything_ but that. She couldn't just call him and tell him that! They were fucking engaged.

Miles pressed the phone closer to his ear and stood up, smacking away Bass' hand as his brother playfully reached for the phone. "Hold on Emma. _Damn it shut up Bass_… _Yeah I'll tell her you said hi. _Bass says hi Emma." Miles grumbled, making his way outside where he would have a chance at properly hearing what she was saying. Emma didn't say hi back, she didn't even respond, and Miles knew that didn't mean anything good. What could he have possibly done to make her mad? He was thousands of miles away, he called every day, and he hadn't forgotten their anniversary or her birthday. There was absolutely no reason for her to be pissed at him.

Miles pressed his back up against the cool brick building behind him and propped his leg up, "Now what did you say?" His stomach lurched when he heard her choke back a sob, and he felt himself getting angry instantly. He wasn't sure why he was angry really; it was just his response every time he heard her cry. Whatever was making her this upset, he'd find it, and he'd beat the hell out of it.

"Miles I… I'm sorry be we can't. I can't marry you." Emma said, resolve cracking. Miles could hear her sniffling and gasping softly on the other end of the line. Call it shock, call it denial, but he didn't believe what he was hearing. She was just nervous. She'd been nervous ever since he left for basic.

"I'm going to be fine babe. I'll be back home with you in no ti—" Emma abruptly cut him off, "No. No I don't want to see you Miles. I can't see you. This is… we're done Miles." What the fuck was she talking about? They weren't _**done**_ he loved her. He wouldn't let them be _**done.**_ What gave her the right to just announce this decision that he had no say in? He was just as big a part of this relationship as she was! She had no right to just… crush him like this. Not right now, only months before he shipped off to a fucking war zone. They were getting _**married;**_ she was his fiancée. This didn't make any sense!

Miles took a deep breath to try and calm himself, so that he wouldn't sound like a stuttering fool. "This… you can't be serious. This is bullshit Emma. What did I do?"

"Don't swear at me Miles Matheson! This isn't about anything that you did… we're just too far apart. You deserve to move on with your life." Emma pleaded, still crying quietly. Miles wanted to comfort her so badly. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, to tell her that he loved her more than anything… but he couldn't. He was thousands of miles away and there was nothing he could do to ease her pain… or his for that matter.

"Move on with my—do you hear yourself? You are my life. What the hell has gotten into you?" Miles snarled, kicking off of the wall he'd been leaning on and starting to pace. His whole body was shaking in a swell of emotions. "It's your parents isn't it?" He hissed, "Don't tell me you're letting them get to you."

"No, Miles please don't make this hard—" Now it was his turn to interrupt, "Me?! I'm making it hard Emma? All I'm trying to do is make some fucking sense of all this. A few months ago we were fine; a few weeks ago we were fine, and now you're breaking up with me, but _**I'm **_making it difficult?" Miles stopped his ranting and ran his hand over his head; a bad habit he had from back before his hair was shaved. "I just don't get it Em…" He whispered, suppressing the tears that he wanted to let out. This was the last place he wanted to cry.

"I'm really sorry Miles." She said softly. Miles put his back against the building wall for support, and slowly slid down it.

"Emma I… I _love_ you…" He murmured, rubbing his face with his free hand. His head was killing him. Her quiet crying was broken by a loud sob before the line went dead. What the hell had just happened? He felt… crushed. Half of his life was planned around Emma. They—they were going to have a house one day and she was going to be there when he came back from Iraq, waiting at the airport with a sign and a teary-eyed smile. He was going to quit drinking, and work on his temper and it would be better by the time they were married. He was going to _**make**_ himself better for her. What had happened? What the hell had he done? Miles bowed his head and pounded a fist against the wall behind him, which hurt like hell.

He could hear footsteps coming up beside him, and Bass' boots stopped right in front of his moments later. "You alright man? What did Emma say?"

"She wants to break up Bass. She said it was over." Miles grunted, refusing to look up at his friend, "What the hell am I going to do?"

* * *

**15 Years after the Blackout**

* * *

Sebastian and Bennett. That was all Miles heard at first. Sebastian, as in Bass, as in his brother and… Emma, his ex-fiancée, a woman he had loved at one time… they had a kid. Miles wasn't an idiot, and Bass had come clean about his affair with Emma one drunken night after the blackout. Bass was a genius in all of his inebriated glory. No matter how pissed Miles may have been with him, the fucker knew they needed each other way too much to split up… over anything. So they had gotten into some stupid fist-fight, which only broke up when Miles punched Bass so hard in the chin that his head flew back and broke Jeremy's nose. Baker learned from his mistake, and never tried to break up a fight between the two of them again.

Miles brought the bottle of vodka up to his lips and took two huge gulps. It shouldn't have been that big of a surprise. Even as a teen, Bass had tried to fill some void in his life by sticking it to every girl that would spread her legs for him (which was a disgustingly large number by the way). To be fair, Miles hadn't been much better than him. _Back then_ it had been a joke. They'd practically kept score _back then_, and they'd laugh their asses off if they ever got a girl in common. It was hilarious, until Bass had fucked Miles' first official girlfriend. Lorene Picket was her name. She was a beautiful raven-haired tennis player, with legs than just never quit. Miles hadn't loved her, he just liked her enough to do more than screw her and leave… but still, Bass should have never crossed that line. He'd apologized and made up some wonderful excuse/lie (Bass used to be the best liar) that got Miles to forgive him. Sure he forgave him; they were 16 for fuck's sake! When Miles met Emma, that all changed. Emma was different; Bass should have kept his hands off. How had Miles ever forgiven the tricky bastard for having sex with her in the first place? He couldn't remember. It must have had something to do with their close bond and the blackout being more important than teenage drama. He groaned softly, this was not what he needed right now. Luckily, Rachel was there to snap him out of it.

"You know where Charlie is?" She said slowly, almost like she was afraid of the answer. Miles could see the gun in her hand waver as her emotions tried to take control. He didn't let his hopes get up so fast though, Bass was a great liar (at least he was before he went off of the deep end), and Miles wasn't sure that his kid didn't have some sort of genetic predisposition to lie passed on from his father.

'Little Bass', as Miles thus dubbed him, forced a tight, uncomfortable smile, "Hey, I'm—I'm not gunna lie to you. I don't know. It was a tip I got about a month or so back when I was asking around for my sister. Maybe it was a cheap shot to pull, but if you can't help me… I don't know what I'm gunna do." To Miles' surprise, Rachel actually lowered the gun. She reached behind her back to shove the pistol into the top of her scraggly jeans. Her lips twitched and her eyes squeezed closed as she fought to keep away tears, which very obviously bothered Monroe's boy. Miles was a little too buzzed and a lot too stunned to think about the hell Rachel had to be going through right now. He was still trying to figure out a way to get it through his alcohol-impaired brain that not only had Bass fucked Emma behind his back, but it had resulted in a kid. One that was almost a carbon copy of Bass himself.

"Do you know about your mom?" Miles asked in a low, gravely tone. He instantly regretted it when he saw the kid's face go from consoling Rachel, to hard as a rock. Miles knew that look; Bass was the fuckin' king of it. It was the same look Bass had on his face after he killed a man for the first time; dark, dangerous, and haunted. Bass had never quite shaken that look, and now it was the only thing left of him. Miles hadn't seen anything but blackness in his brother's eyes that day at the power plant, when they were trying to save Danny. He'd thought maybe when Emma had been shot there had been something else in Bass' soulless gaze—desperation, sadness—but he'd been too far away to really tell.

The kid's jaw clenched and he drew in a sharp breath, "Yeah. I know." There was a long silence that fell over the room, like all three of them took a moment to mourn their own plight. "All I have left," 'Little Bass' said quietly, "Is my wife, and my sister. Blair and I, we've stuck together through everything. I should be at home with my wife, with my new born-baby, but I can't… I can't live looking at my family, knowing a part of it is missing and there is some chance, any at all, to get that part back. I _know_ you understand that _Mrs. Matheson_."

Rachel's head shot up, matching her blue eyes with his bright green ones. She managed to thinly veil her rage and sorrow as she spoke, "And what… do you think you know, about me?" When she took a bold step forward, the kid respectfully stepped back, raising his hands in the air again. Whoever had raised him had already taught him a hell of a lot more respect than his father had ever had.

"I'm not trying to screw with you, if that is what you think. I can see it in your eyes though, I can see something missing. You want your daughter back, and I bet you would do anything if it meant keeping her safe. Well, I want my family safe, all of it, and the only way that will happen is if you help me." He pleaded gently, trying to calmly coax Rachel into trusting him. How many times had Bass tried that same move on her? Miles was amazed that she didn't flash back right to those times, then the torture that followed after she refused, and totally freak out. She was either too far gone mentally to suspect this kid's rouse, or some motherly sixth sense told her that this kid was sincere, and genuinely cared.

Miles felt his resolve cracking. If Rachel was going to go back to Philadelphia with this guy because of a sob story and a possibility, then he was going too. He'd feel terrible if he had a chance to save Charlie, and missed it because of his cynicism, or if Rachel got hurt because of his stubbornness. Besides, why sit around here and wait to die when you can go out and get yourself killed all on your own? What was the expression? If you want something done right, do it yourself. Miles snorted and abandoned the bottle on the rickety table. He was in no condition to travel, and if he kept it up like this, he would stay that way for a very long time.

Miles watched as Rachel tried to make eye contact with him, trying to persuade him to say something. No sooner had Miles opened his mouth before a blood curdling holler and a series of loud bangs came from outside of the door. Two seconds later, Aaron burst in, running faster than Miles had ever seen him run before. Without asking what happened, who the new person in the room was, or why the door was broken, Aaron began trying to shove pieces of splintered wood back into place and braced himself against the door. He was trying to say something to them, but kept breaking off midsentence to repeat the words 'holy shit' over and over.

'Little Bass' pulled a pistol from inside the leg of his pants and pointed it at the door as Rachel dove for her own gun. Figuring they had the firearm front manned sufficiently, Miles turned his focus onto actually figuring out what the hell was going on. He grabbed Aaron by the front of the shirt and shook him, but the larger man only continued to blubber hysterically. Miles was too intoxicated, and too emotionally unstable to deal with Aaron's cowardice. He pulled back a rough, calloused hand and punched Aaron in the jaw, and it actually worked.

"Holy shit. Miles. Miles it's as big as I am. AS BIG AS I AM!" Pitman cried, jerking violently when something slammed against the door. Miles could hear the sound of claws slamming against the wooden frame and the loud, heavy pant of some sort of animal. He dared to peak his eye through a crack in the wood and saw only a huge mass of black and silver fur. Was that a fucking bear? How did it manage to get this far into town? He tried to see through the crack a second time but the beast pounded against the door with a terrifying bark, causing Miles to flinch and pull back in surprise.

'Little Bass' started to swear under his breath and turned Miles away from the door. "Ok, don't freak out." The kid said reassuringly, making clear, intense eye contact with Aaron, "On the bright side, those are kind of my dogs."

The blood left Aaron's face, "D-dogs as in plural?!"

"Yeah, um, hey… I'm going to count to three and you're going to roll over into a corner and be totally still. With any luck, I can stop them before they maul you to death." Sebastian said with a falsely cheery tone.

"Any luck?! I thought they were your dogs!" Aaron was practically screaming like a girl at this point, his voice two octaves higher than usual.

'Little Bass' made quick hand gesture to try and appease the larger man, "Ehhh, technically they're Blair's dogs, but most of the time they listen to me too! Ready?"

"NO!" Aaron shouted.

"The alternative is hoping that his teeth don't rip through the door and take off the back of your head before I can get him to stop. One!" The kid said in a rushed tone.

"STOP HIM NOW! You can't honestly tell me this is your best plan!"

Sebastian snorted in response, "Plans are sort of a 'Blair thing'. I'm more of a go-getter. Two!"

At least two more barks could be heard along side of the first. Almost as though the mutts were collaborating their attack, they rammed the door so hard it nearly made Aaron fall. The sound of teeth and nails against wood was deafening. Miles shot a look at Rachel, who looked utterly fearless. This time her gun was steady and Miles had no doubt she would shoot without hesitation if she felt threatened.

"Are you really saying this right now?!" Aaron shouted, slamming himself back against the door forcefully.

"Don't be a bitch. You never know until you give it a shot! THREE!" With that 'Little Bass' grabbed Aaron's shoulders and shoved him away from the door. In an instant the massive creature flew through the wood, flanked by two others.

Aaron hadn't been lying. This dog definitely matched Miles' weight, if not topped it. Its shoulders were almost up to Miles' hips, and it was covered from head to toe in various shades of thick grey and black fur. Its jaws were massive, and as it barked Miles could see long, yellowed teeth sharp as daggers, dripping with frothy white saliva. The dog, if you could even call it a dog, focused it's black eyes right on Aaron, and Monroe's boy literally had to leap for it in order to grab the small leather leash before its jaws closed around Aaron's throat. 'Little Bass' was swearing in English, and shouting something else in a language Miles didn't recognize.

The two that bounded in behind the ring-leader obeyed the kid's angry shouting and instantly sat down. These two looked a hell of a lot less like monsters to Miles, and a whole lot more like dogs. One was some sort of shepherd mix, black as coal with only a few flecks of tawny fur on its back and legs. The other was a similar shape, but had some sort of collie in it, with long white and cream colored fur. They were still clearly riled up, but didn't seem threatening.

Miles felt Rachel shake his hand off of her arm. He couldn't exactly remember when he'd forced the gun out of her gasp and protectively stood in front of her, but she didn't look amused by or grateful for his help. When he finally lowered his arm to let her step forward, she slipped past him, walking straight between the two growling dogs, and past the one that was blind with rage, over to offer Aaron a hand. She did it more out of a need to prove herself than she did kindness. Poor Aaron did look on the edge of a full-blown panic-attack though. His eyes never left the dog.

"Thig air mo chùl! Don't worry! Damn it Conrí! Sios! No no! Everything is fine!" The kid said, wrestling to grab hold of a collar beneath the mounds of thick fur while it bucked like a rodeo bull. The mongrel reared up onto its hind quarters, and spun around, trying to dislodge 'Little Bass', who was trying his damnedest not to get bit. At one point the massive creature propped itself on the kid's shoulder with one of its paws, and stood on its hind legs, it was as tall as the young man restraining it. Finally, with a loud grunt and a forceful shove, he managed to knock the beast off balance and sit it on the ground. Sweat was dripping down the sides of his face, and he was panting heavily by the time it was all over. "Told… you… it would… be fine!" Sebastian managed to say, flopping on the ground next to the massive animal.

"W-what is that?" Aaron stuttered, pointing a thick finger at the small pack of dogs on the floor.

'Little Bass' gave the bigger man the strangest look, "It's a dog."

"No. No. I know what a dog is. I've had dogs. That has to be some small subspecies of bear." Aaron snarled, only half joking.

"It's some sort of Russian mountain dog or something. Blair's grandpa bred them because he… um, liked his privacy. He had like 12 of these things before the blackout. We only have like three purebreds left. Soon they'll all be mixes… do you want to pet him?" He asked, thumping the dog merrily on its side. The huge beast seemed to have forgotten all about the attempted murder, and had lowered onto its haunches, panting just like any other dog would.

Aaron looked offended at even the suggestion, "What? No! Who the hell are you anyway?"

The kid stuck out a friendly hand, "I go by SJ."

Miles was starting to wish he hadn't set down that bottle; this whole ordeal had sobered him up way too fast. He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and then wiped the dirt on his filthy pants. It was taking some time for his heart rate to slow back down to a normal speed. The thing is, the feeling of nearly being ripped to shreds and eaten alive by an enormous animal never fails to terrify people… even people like Miles. Being attacked by that pack of mangy mutts in Chicago had nearly given him a heart attack. People could be talked to, they could be predicted, but animals took time to understand. Animals communicate in subtle body language, and if you don't know how to decipher it, you're fucked. Miles had gotten pretty good with horses, but he hadn't had a dog since he was a kid.

"So why are you traveling with a bunch of man-eating mutts?" Miles asked, walking across the room to gather his shit and throw it into his pack.

The kid shrugged, "Why don't you? They can help hunt, they can track, they alert me when there is danger, and they're protective. I've seen a good pack of dogs scare off militia soldiers before. Had swords and everything, but when the dogs bared their teeth, the men ran right back to whatever militia scum hole they came out of… Though I am totally sorry you almost got eaten." He stood up and patted Aaron firmly on the back, causing the large man to jump nervously, "Um, if we could get back to the point here… if you're coming with me, we have got to go now."

Miles watched as Aaron's eyes darted from 'Little Bass' to Rachel and finally on to him. "Go? Go where?" Aaron said suspiciously.

"To get Charlie." Rachel said gently, but Miles knew this was dangerous territory. He didn't think Rachel would ever try to kill one of them, but if it ever came to that, it would be because of Charlie. Her hopes were already up and God have mercy on anyone who tried to bring them down again.

'Little Bass cleared his throat to break the silence in the room, "Philadelphia to be a little bit more precise." Miles could see Aaron's hands trembling with nervousness and could already tell what he was thinking. They'd barely escaped Philly with their lives last time, even getting in the city had practically killed them. There would be no tunnels this time, there wouldn't be any wagons unchecked leaving the city, and if they did manage to get in and got caught in a lock-down, they were as good as dead. Last time they had a team to get inside Philly. Miles had Aaron, Charlie, Nora, Wheatley (who had been pretty good help until he tried to murder them), and four other rebels to infiltrate the capital with. Now what did he have? An extremely unpredictable and highly dangerous Rachel, Aaron (whose usefulness hadn't really improved since the last time), a kid he didn't even know who was the bastard child of his brother and his ex-fiancée, and three dogs that had already tried to eat one of them. Not to mention the fact he'd scarcely stopped drinking since Charlie's disappearance and was still angry over Nora's death. They were a walking disaster; it was a miracle they'd all survived this long in a room together.

Miles missed some part of the conversation, and only tuned back in when he heard Aaron start to get pissed. "No, no, no, I just don't understand why we have to leave right _**now.**_" Aaron pleaded in an annoyed tone. Rachel was losing her patience with him fast. Monroe's kid didn't seem to care; he looked very nonchalant about the whole ordeal and was even half-smiling at Aaron. If the big guy was smart, he'd shut up and do his best to stay on Sebastian's good side, because no one else was in the mood to deal with his smart-alecky bullshit.

'Little Bass' busied himself by tightening a strap of his supply pack, not looking up as he spoke," I heard some guys a couple of towns over saying that President Foster has been negotiating with Monroe for a week, and that any day now the border will be covered with militia soldiers as they try to establish their new territory. If we have any chance of getting to Philly, we're gunna have to get to the mountains where the border is weak, and cross there. Preferably without getting seen."

Miles saw Rachel nod her head and disappear into the bathroom for a minute. When she reemerged her hair was tied back in a sloppy pony tail, and she was carrying a small supply pack on her shoulder. She mumbled something to Aaron about going across the hall to his own room to get the rest of their stuff. Apparently Miles wasn't gathering his own things as fast as she wanted, and she began to cram things into his old, tattered pack at an impressive speed. She was nervous; Miles could see it all over her, but he wasn't really sure what she was so nervous about. Shouldn't she be excited? Or determined? She was the one who had lowered her gun and let the kid in. She was the first to believe this kid's story, or so Miles assumed. He never really knew. Even after years of holding her hostage and questioning her—torturing her, Miles never truly understood why Rachel did some of the things she did. But he had learned to read her emotions; her tells. Rachel had one of the world's best poker faces, and it took him a lot of time and patience to learn to see through it into the little things she did. Her back would tense up, and she'd always grab things a little harder than necessary. That's how he knew she was nervous… he just didn't know why.

It took a good 10 minutes to get their things in order. The entire time was spent in silence, aside from 'Little Bass' who was bemoaning his breath that the dog 'never listened to him', like it could understand him or something. Miles packed what little previsions (aka his booze) he had in the room with him, and spent the rest of the time leaning against the wall and forcing himself not to go see what the hell was taking Aaron so long. When Aaron finally stomped back into the room, the kid took hold of the dog's small leather leash and nodded for them to follow him down the halls and into the dark streets.

It had to be the middle of the night, at least, but people were still out. Most of them were homeless people, or travelers that didn't have enough money for an inn, or drunkards that couldn't find their way back home, but there were a few shops still open, with determined salesmen shouting out the type of wares being sold. They'd better sell as much as possible before Monroe started taxing the hell out of them. Miles wondered what his brother would end up doing with all of Georgia's money and if Bass could manage things like trading with Europe. Bass had always been shitty with money and he was greedy too. It had been Bass' idea to use prisoners of the Republic as free labor. He refused to call it slavery, but the only alternative was to be beaten or killed on sight.

"I hate to be negative," Aaron started, and Miles resisted the urge to punch him in the back of his head. As much as he 'hated' being negative, Miles knew that statement was going to have a "but" thrown in somewhere. "But how are we going to make it to the mountains before the militia storms Georgia's entire border? We don't even know how long we have before that happens." Aaron readjusted his glasses and lowered his torch ever so slightly to try and see 'Little Bass' past the glare of the flame.

The kid put his finger up to his dry, cracked lips and shushed him as he dipped into a dark alley. "Put that torch out." The kid whispered, "There is plenty of moonlight, and I'd like to get out of town without being seen." Before Aaron could protest, Sebastian snapped his fingers causing the black shepherd mix to emerge from the shadows and bare its teeth. In the poor light, because of its black coloring, it was hard to see anything but its yellowed teeth and the reflection of the firelight in its eyes. The torch fell from Aaron's hand against the old, cracked cement. The glowing embers scorched a few persistent blades of grass that had fought their way up through the concrete before starting to die out.

They slunk through alleys like stray cats, filthy, thin, and silent in the pale glow of the full moon. No stars were out tonight. The moon was the singular, incandescent eye of the heavens, watching the people below suffer with cruel indifference. Miles almost wondered if Rachel and Ben, and all of the others responsible for the blackout were just tools in a great cosmic play for a host of cruel 'heavenly' beings who were bored and in need of something to do. Preachers had been saying from the day that the blackout happened, that it was the work of God; that the blackout was meant to bring us closer to him. Maybe God was like fairy in Peter Pan, and caused the blackout because he needed people to believe in him, just to keep his power. Miles shook his head; he had to learn to tune out those crazy evangelists on the corner better, or he might actually start to believe crazy shit like that.

Miles was so lost in thought that he barely realized when the town started to fade around them and not even the distant sounds of human life could be heard in the darkness. Then 'Little Bass' lit a torch, breathing a deep sigh of relief, and stopping to rest against a tree. Miles looked up at the sky. It must not have taken them too long to get out of town, because it was still pitch-black out.

"Now, to answer your question, I have a friend keeping an eye on a team of horses a ways from here. I'm sure he'll be able to spare one or two more for our trip. I've done this guy a hell of a lot of favors. He owes me…" Sebastian stopped to stretch for a couple of minutes, "We can make it there before dawn if we keep moving. From there we'll ride up through the mountains. Militia won't hit the rural mountain borders for a long time, if ever. They're going to be more concerned with major roadways, and escape routes to places like Texas or the Plains Nation."

"And where exactly do you get all of that foresight?" Aaron asked from behind. Knowing Miles wouldn't sympathize with him, the burly man looked to Rachel, "Come on, you can't tell me you believe what this guy is saying. Rachel this could be dangerous."

The kid only laughed and waved his hand nonchalantly, "Which is why we're going that way. People try to stick together in a web of towns, villages, and even cities. You move your town too far away, you block off supplies, medical attention, and assorted other things you might want or need. Almost no one lives on their own in the mountains, too easy to die that way."

"Militia won't send an army where there isn't anyone to fight." Miles but-in. He liked how this kid thought. 'Little Bass' grinned in response and nodded his head before starting to walk off into the night, following some unmarked path that was only kept in his mind. Miles looked around their small group protectively, they were in rough shape but they could make to this 'friend's house' the kid was talking about. Then they would climb the mountains, get to Philly, and he'd run a sword through Monroe's neck for taking Charlie from him. He was going to finish this.

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**So I wrote this chapter foreverness ago, and I've tried to move on to the next, with much difficulty. Idk if it is because I left, because of so little feedback on the story, because of a lack of confidence in the story, because I just spent a week in my grandma's old house, or if I am just in a rut, but I've hit a wall with this story. But if you like it, don't worry I'm not giving up. I seem to go through this with every story I write, original or fan work. Usually I work through it... though on my last story it took me like five months, but I swear I won't do that here. I'm still working on this story, and a one shot from Rachel's point of view that I am writing to go along with a video I posted to youtube. So, point is, I'm still really into Revolution and I hope to get everything fixed and reworked. I may end up rewriting some of the Charlie/Blair chapter, so if you're reading and something has changed, check that chapter. Thanks for your patience, views, and any feedback. I should probably go mow my lawn... any higher and I'll have to use a machete to get to my car.**

**PS: I hope you liked SJ, he's a bit of a character. Everyone in this story is so damn angst-ey and depressed and filled with self loathing, and I'm not saying SJ is a pocket full of sunshine but he is very up beat. I'm looking forward to writing his scene with Rachel. Gosh is fuckin scares me to write Rachel. Such a complex character... but I love her so much**


	8. Possession

**So I'll try to make this short, because this is a long ass chapter. I'm in college again number one, so updates will be slower. I have had a couple of new people fav or follow this story, so thank you that is very much appreciated. Thanks to Valantha for betaing this story, especially given how crazy my update rate has been!**

**Lastly, just as a quick note, remember this is a point of view piece, even though it is read by a narrator. So if you are reading and the narration about Miles makes him sound like a villain, remember that is Bass' opinions (and mine). Also, I don't watch Game of Thrones, or read it or play it... I'm not sure what exactly it is really, but I was browsing deviantart pictures and came across a painting of Ygritte (I think that is how it's spelled). Usually I don't tell people this stuff, but Rose Leslie, looks a lot like how I imagine Blair. It isn't exact, but I won't go into detail. So I guess if you're a person that likes having pictures with stories, google Rose Leslie, and remember Blair's hair is long and curly... what ever. Why are you still reading this? I'm just rambling. Go on then...**

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"_Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind."__  
__―__Cassandra Clare__,__Clockwork Prince_

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General Monroe stared blankly at the small sea of soldiers before him. Each and every soldier was in uniform, carrying some sort of firearm, filing towards large colorless tents where they would receive orders and leave for their assigned stations with previsions. There was a feeling of urgency in the air, making the men silent and focused. In less than a week the new tropes would march through the front gates and begin their ruthless retraining program. All Georgians… or ex-Georgians to be precise. Right now, well they weren't much of anything. They'd all have to be retrained. Every last one of them. No doubt some would be… difficult, and would need the proper persuasion to fall into line. These soldiers standing before Bass, they were his loyal and true militia. They would be responsible for teaching these new soldiers how to act, preventing any escapes, and cementing the ex-Georgians loyalty to the Republic. And that would only be the beginning of the General's efforts to take complete control of his new land.

He'd have never thought that having something _given _(or technically surrendered) to him would be so much damn work. Finances, weapons, soldiers, disgruntled citizens. Everyone suddenly needed a minute of his time. He hadn't slept since Kelly had signed over her part of the country to him… since he murdered her. Shot her clean between her pretty brown eyes. He'd never liked her, but that was more like a bonus rather than the reason behind her execution. Killing her had been a message to all her former officers, her citizens and soldiers; the Georgia Federation was dead and gone, and anyone who opposed his militia would join it in the dirt. It was all a mind game, and for the most part it had worked. People were sufficiently frightened but they weren't rioting or fleeing by the masses.

But he wasn't happy. Happiness seemed so far beyond him now. Whoever said that misery loves company, has never felt the crushing hopelessness of being completely and utterly alone. That's how he felt… alone. The defeat of Georgia had come with a heart crushing realization. He could conquer the country, the continent, hell, he could take over the world; but he'd still be alone. _Miles_ wasn't here to see this, _his_ dream, what _he_ thought the Republic could always do. Miles was gone. Miles _hated_ Bass now. He had no family. Emma was dead. He'd sent a letter back in response to his son, but got no reply. All he had was power, a massive headache, and a knot in his shoulder the size of Texas. Taking control of Georgia forced him to see that more land, and more power, only meant more stress. There was no joy in his victory. He was stale and cold… and alone. He was so tired of being alone.

Was that so wrong? All he'd ever wanted was family. He wanted people who were proud of him, that loved him for who he was. That was all he'd wanted since the day that stupid drunk driver killed his parents and sisters. He could have sworn that he'd found it in Miles. Miles had always been there. They had always been brothers; since they were kids. He'd clung to Miles, thought that Miles was everything that he really needed in the world. For a while he was right, and Miles never let him down. Then one day Miles had a gun in his face. Bass didn't know why for the longest time and even after Miles "explained it" that day outside of the Tower…. Bass didn't get it. He didn't know where he'd gone wrong with Miles. They'd killed hundreds, if not thousands of people together. They'd set up reformation camps that took children from their families and made them soldiers. They'd made prisoners into slaves. They'd tortured people together. When had that stopped being ok? Where was this imaginary line Miles had found, that Bass had apparently crossed? Why was he being punished for something Miles had wanted him to do? Miles had asked him to hold the political reigns, because he was more charming, because he had a better handle on his temper, because he didn't drink as much (at the time). _Miles_ wanted him to take charge of the Republic… and yet _Miles_ hated him for doing that job, for being so good at it. All he'd ever wanted to do was help Miles, to please his family. Back then he'd been such a people-pleaser. And what did that get him? Nothing. He was alone and he had nothing… until a couple of months ago.

It wasn't until the chopper landed on the snow-dusted Pennsylvania ground that Bass let himself think of her. McKenna. He'd forced himself to focus while he was away the past couple of weeks. Any time he spent thinking of her only made him feel lonely. He'd missed her. She was all he really had wasn't she? He may not have his son, or Emma, or even Miles, but he had her, and he'd never lose her. She couldn't walk away from him, he'd never allow that. No one would ever hurt her, he would protect her. No one could steal her from him, she was under constant guard. He needed something desperately right now, and that something would have to be her. How many whores had he gone through since he left Philly? He hadn't even counted. A new one every night, at least. None of them were what he'd wanted. He couldn't have any of them; possess them, like he could her. She was _his_, undeniably and completely his, that is what made her so different. Eventually, once she understood that, she would need him too. She would love him, and he would love her. Then they would be inseparable. Maybe they'd even make a family. Not right away, and of course he'd still look for his son, but eventually. Eventually they could be a family. All of them. Fuck Miles. What the hell did he need Miles for anymore? **Nothing**. Not when he had her.

"—And we'll station the younger ones out in one of the spare pastures to the right of the house, though not as far as the older, more seasoned soldiers. It should be perfectly safe; they haven't had enough time to truly become loyal to the Georgian army… sir?" Bass looked over to see Captain Baker sitting astride a tall grey horse, pointing toward the said pasture with the tip of his crop. Bass saw Jeremy trying, and failing, to mask a smirk as he emerged from his inner monologue.

"I don't care where you put them," The General said dryly, "Just make sure the house is well-guarded… and tell them to hurry. I'd like to be done here." He knew it was important for him to be here. It was at times like these when it was most important to show himself to his men. They needed to see his face, and connect him personally to the situation. Men of the Monroe Militia should know who he was, they needed to picture him, and know exactly who they were fighting for. They needed to see that he personally was the one who had the power; _he_ was the one in control.

These new men needed to see him too. They needed to know that this was his army, and he'd be playing an active role in each of their lives from now on. Now they were _his_ soldiers. It needed to be personal. That is why he was setting up the main camp here in his new home. Longwood was plenty large enough to house a few hundred soldiers out on its uncultivated land and give them room to train. That would have been difficult in the city. Setting up a perimeter would have been trickier too with all of the buildings and etcetera. Longwood was a rectangle, for the most part, and it was easy to surround it with loyal militia men who could watch for escapees. It was the perfect place to base his operations out of… for now at least.

The only issue was that he was out here, (freezing his nuts off) standing in his front lawn watching men unload from wagons and trucks, and Blair was only steps away from him. All he'd have to do is walk through the front door and ask a maid where she was, but he couldn't. He had a job to do, and it was putting him on the edge. His temper was ridiculously short-fused right now. Which was why Baker was giving orders to the men and dealing with any issues that arose on his own. If one of these soldiers pissed Bass off right now, it would most likely mean immediate execution. He was cold, he was stressed, and all he wanted to do was get this over with and go inside.

Bass watched as Jeremy kicked his horse, cantering off towards the long line of men marching wordlessly towards their new camp. At the sight of him one line of soldiers stopped and saluted respectfully, making room for his horse to pass through. He steered the large grey stallion towards one of the paths leading to the other pastures and rode away. Right before he was out of eyesight, Bass saw the horse come to an abrupt halt and stick its head over the fence where a small chestnut mare (he had to assume it was a mare from the way the stallion behaved) was laying on the snow. The general laughed as his captain struggled to get the obstinate animal under control before finally riding away.

He looked back at the mare. Even at this distance, he could see a thick black blanket covering most of her red coat. That must be the horse that they'd brought here with McKenna. The regular cavalry horses weren't blanketed like that, and they were housed much further down the road. The little mare had stood to her feet and charged the fence in all of the commotion, and was now strutting around the pen with her head held high as though she'd just won a grand battle. He chuckled under his breath; the horse was so different from her rider.

He caught the eye of one of the maids, who was shaking out a rug on the porch. She stiffened with fear as he motioned for her to come closer. Carefully, she folded the old rug over and laid it on the banister before hesitantly coming down the steps and across the yard towards him. Bass tried to think of her name. She'd worked for quite a few of his officers, her face was familiar. It was some sort of flower name. Daisy? No. Lilly? No that was the name of that hooker from… not important. Rose. Yes! Her name was Rose. Rose was a pretty young woman. Tan-skinned and shapely with dark brown hair, he was surprised she was here and not married yet. Nowadays women married so young. It wasn't like before the blackout when they had many other options.

She kept her dark brown eyes cast downward as she spoke to him and bit down on her bottom lip. "Is there anything I can do for you sir?" She asked quietly, shifting from one leg to the other nervously.

Bass looked away back towards the pasture with the mare, thinking maybe his indifference would put the poor girl at ease, "Do you know where Blair is?"

The maid frowned and tilted her head, confusion flashing in her eyes. "She's in the library sir. She never really leaves her library. She likes to watch her horse from the window. They've moved a bed in there since the doctor came." She explained slowly, flinching when the General's attention abruptly snapped back onto her.

Bass narrowed his eyes and turned his own horse toward the young woman, who practically cowered in response, "What doctor? Is she alright?" He said that a little too fast, and a little too loud for his taste. His heart immediately started to thump faster. Was she sick? Was she dying? No. She obviously wasn't dying; they'd have told him immediately if she were dying. Maybe she'd hurt herself? That seemed unlikely. He'd left his window open their first night together and she hadn't even tried to jump out. She didn't seem suicidal.

"I—I honestly don't know sir. I've only been here a couple of days and I've never seen her myself. I'm just going by what the others talk about in the kitchen." She stuttered, squeezing her eyes shut in the anticipation of punishment. Bass didn't bother with her for another second. He swung his leg and sharply dismounted his horse, shoving the reigns into the maid's hands before making a beeline for the house. A soldier saluted and opened the front door for him as he stomped by, trying not to look as anxious as he felt. There wasn't really any reason to worry. People get sick all the time. Sometimes they go and see doctors for no reason at all. He was probably blowing this way out of proportion… but the blackout had changed things. Medicine wasn't what it used to be and a case of the sniffles could turn into life threatening pneumonia faster than you'd think. That was all he could think about right now.

The guards posted at the library door stepped out of the way after one look at Monroe's face, which was twisted into an angry scowl. He violently turned the handle and flung open the door. It was dark. The shades were pulled over the window and only one candle was burning inside of the room. In the shadows he could see a bed, and a tall, thin figure standing beside it.

He froze when he realized just who that figure was. Charlotte Matheson was standing on the far side of the room by a small bed. Even in the dim light, he could see Charlotte beside Blair, who staring at the covered window with the same blank, expressionless face she'd had when he left. The blonde didn't waste a second diving for him like a crazy person. Bass held back an annoyed groan as he easily deflected her pounding fists. She was young, and fast, but too eager and nowhere near as experienced as he was in battle. Even taken by surprise, Bass was still able take hold of her arm and spin her around; restraining her securely in his arms, with her back pressed tightly against his chest. The feeling was familiar. She was about as tall as her mother, with a similar figure. He'd had to do the same thing with Rachel a million times. Rachel was more calculating though. She'd have never charged him unarmed. Hadn't Miles taught this kid anything?

A few strands of loose hair flew around her face as she jerked against his powerful, unmoving grasp. Bass didn't give her the satisfaction of reacting to her hissy fit. He rested his chin on her top of her head and waited for her to ride it out. A little trick he'd learned when restraining her mother, keep your chin up so she can't rear back and break your nose (Rachel had broken his twice before she learned better). Charlotte pulled and kicked like a wild horse being lassoed; even trying to head-butt him before he grew weary of her little fit and shoved her against the wall. Her breathing sped up to the point where she was almost hyperventilating, but he wasn't suffocating her. She was just needlessly panicking, or maybe she was just that pissed. He didn't know Charlotte very well yet, so he couldn't be sure. "Always a pleasure to see you Charlotte." He said with casual sarcasm, jerking her arms and tightening them behind her back.

"Let me go, you sick son of a bitch!" The blonde snarled in response. Ah, that dialog. So she had learned something from her dear old uncle. Miles had always been excessively crass. Charlotte began to kick her feet against him. Her foot collided with his calf, his knee, even his thigh, but he knew what she was _really_ aiming for. He only chuckled and pressed his hips firmly into her backside, making her freeze. She was a lot more like her mother than he'd have guessed. When she settled down and stopped struggling Bass patted her hip and took a step back. Charlotte whirled around and glared at him, pressing her back into the wall and holding her breath. Now that she was face-to-face with him, and he was so close, he could see the courage leave her eyes. All that was left was an angry front that he could have easily shattered, if he wanted to.

"Relax Charlotte." He said with mock gentleness. Bass watched the young woman take a shaky breath as he tenderly ran the back of his fingers down her arm. Her lips twitched in nervous agitation and he felt her arm jump as she resisted the urge to strike him. She was so, so much like her mother; just younger, and stupider. The general tilted his head to one side, smirking a bit, "Well?" He said expectantly, taking a long pause, waiting for some sort of verbal response, "I did what you asked Charlotte. Didn't your mother ever teach you to say thank you?" Bass whispered, inches from her face. He knew it made women uncomfortable when men they didn't like got this close. They always tensed up and fumbled over their words. Nora and Rachel had been an exception. They had always remained calm despite what he did to them, even if they were uncomfortable. Charlotte was still young though, and she obviously wasn't sure how to react. She tried her best to scowl at him, but he could see the fear in her eyes. "As lovely as it is to see you again Miss Matheson, I don't know why you're in here, and I think you should leave." He said lowly, stepping aside and nodding to one of the guards. Charlotte hesitated; looking over at Blair with an expression Bass couldn't quite place, but then slipped around him and followed the guard back to where ever it was they were keeping her.

He was confused... and annoyed. Yes, he'd told them to bring Charlotte Matheson here, but not _here_, not in this room. His fingers coiled in to fists. God only knows what terrible things she'd been telling Blair. That's just what he needed, for Blair to have more reasons to hate him.

Blair didn't seem to care though. He wasn't even sure that she noticed him as he carefully lowered himself onto the bed beside her and stroked her leg gently. When she didn't respond he shook her softly by the knee, and then when she still didn't look at him, he shook a little harder, using his other hand to snap his fingers in front of her face. It caught him completely off guard when she jerked her head back and smacked his hand away. He hadn't expected her to move so quickly.

"Damn it! How many times have I told you not to do that to me? I nearly died of fright." She snapped. Bass frowned and moved in closer, still stroking her thigh tenderly. Something was wrong. Her very faint hint of an accent was now thick and strong. He recognized it now. It was definitely Scottish. "And stop sitting so close to me. You know I hate it when people are in my face…" She hissed, trying to scoot away from him on the bed. Instinctively Bass took hold of her arm to keep her from toppling onto the floor, and Blair jerked angrily. "SJ! Are you listening to me at all? I said get off."

Not knowing what else to do, he pulled her back toward him and shook her again. What the hell was going on? Was she trying to mess with his head? He gripped her arms tighter, feeling his anger start to rise. He wasn't in the mood to deal with this right now. He hadn't expected a warm welcome from her, but he also hadn't expected her to try and play him so soon… and he didn't even want to consider the possibility that this wasn't all some sort of game she was playing.

Blair looked appalled when she finally glanced over at him. "I'll tell your mum on you if you don't let me go this instant. SJ you're hurting me!" She cried in frustration, trying to pull free once more. Her other arm came around and smacked his wrists where he was holding her. Bass wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't sure if he felt furious, or terrified by the disgruntled, confused look in her glassy grey eyes. This was all an act, right? He looked at her more closely, trying to see if she was lying or find some indication of what was really going on. She seemed so small and childlike with her face twisted in a mixture of confusion and anger. This didn't sit right with him. She didn't look well at all.

"I'm not SJ. It's General Monroe, Blair. Bass. Remember I told you to call me Bass?" He explained slowly, like he would speak to a dim-witted child. It didn't help; Blair kept smacking at his hands and mumbling something under her breath.

"Just wait 'till I tell Emma. This isn't funny Bastian!" She sounded absolutely enraged, but her voice was still as quiet as ever. "I'll bite you. Do you want me to bite you?"

Bass pulled her arm so that he could twist her around and grab her by the shoulders to hold onto her better. She let out an ear-piercing scream, and became very still, her arms circling around her belly. "Blair! Look at me!" He practically shouted, and she instantly obeyed. Her big beautiful eyes were filled with tears.

"What is the matter with you?! Let me go SJ! You've hurt me, I'm not playing around." She whimpered. A stray tear left her eye and rolled down her cheek to her jaw. She still looked angry, but he could see she was frightened too.

He reached up and cupped her cheek, gently wiping the tear drop away, which only made her angrier. "I am not SJ—."

"Stop! Stop trying to confuse me! Why are you doing this to me?!" She demanded, putting her hands over her face and rubbing it. She kept her face buried in her hands for what seemed like an eternity, her long red curls covered her face like a curtain. When she finally pulled them away and raised her head, the look in her eyes was a little less spacey. She began to blink rapidly, glancing around the room and then she burst into tears, just like she had after he'd hit her that one morning. Bass watched helplessly, he had no idea how to help her. Her ample chest heaved for air against her blouse; her arms went back around her own waist, trembling but holding herself tightly, and her face contorted into an expression of hopelessness. There she was, looking right at him, as though she were in some sort of terrible pain and he didn't know how to stop it. An overwhelming sense of fear and pity stabbed at his gut, followed by a wave of self-loathing. He hadn't done this to her right? No. No… ever since he'd taken her out of her cell, he'd been very good to her. He'd given her a beautiful house, nice clothes, people to wait on her hand and foot. No, whatever was happening wasn't his fault.

Bass kept a firm hold on her chin, forcing her to continue making eye contact. "Blair. It's Bass. Do you know who I am?" He asked quietly. He had to repeat his name a few more times before she seemed to fully understand. Stiffly, she nodded her head and tried to push him away from her, but he only got closer. "Who am I Blair?" This time he asked more firmly.

She cleared her throat to cover up the sound of her sniffling as she tried to stop the crystalline tears rolling down her cheeks, "You're General Monroe."

"Right. I'm Bass… " He corrected her gently. The last thing he wanted was for her to use his last name when she addressed him. She was his, um… well she was _his_, and he wanted her to call him by the name his closest friends called him. "Blair?" He said slowly, trying to get her attention to stay on him. He had no idea what to do right now, and that wasn't a situation he was used to being in. He grabbed hold of her shoulders again and gave her a little shake. She flinched and tightened her arms around her stomach.

"You're Bass." Blair conceded, biting down hard on her lip. He let out a sigh of relief and wrapped his arms around her. Thank goodness whatever the hell that was had passed. He pressed his face into her hair and inhaled her sent deeply. Damn, he'd missed her. He'd missed having something real and alive to hold and have.

Bass stood back and went to the window, pulling back the shades and letting in the light of the setting sun. It was hazy outside, a few snowflakes were still falling from the sky, and it didn't do much to light up the room. "Why are you in bed?" He asked as he began to light the other candles in the room. It didn't really matter to him, unless she really was ill. She could do almost anything she wanted in this house. The only reason he asked was to keep her talking. He needed to keep her talking, that was all he knew to do right now. If she lapsed back into silence, he may lose her again. When the last candle was lit, Bass stooped down to ignite the fireplace. The room was much brighter now. Details and colors were much more vivid. Looking at Blair now in this new light made him see that she looked perfectly fine. Now he was curious, why was she still in bed?

"I'm… sick to my stomach. Doctor said to stay in bed. I'm probably fine though." She lied, and badly. In fact he'd never heard her lie so terribly before. Most of the time he was left questioning, wondering if she was telling him the truth, but this time he knew that she was lying. She bit the inside of her cheek and wouldn't even look at him when she said it.

Bass narrowed his eyes and clasped his hands behind his back, taking a slow step toward her, "Really… sick how?" The fire crackled and he saw her flinch ever so slightly. Her tiny hand reached up to rub the remaining moisture from her tear stained eyes but she didn't make any move to say anything. That was more like the Blair he'd come to know. If she thought she was going to say something she'd regret, she always answered with silence. It was one of the most telling, and infuriating things about her. Bass cleared his throat and pulled a chair up beside the bed. Either she wasn't sick at all, or she wasn't telling him the whole story and he intended on figuring out which. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees, "Are you contagious?"

She clenched her jaw and looked down at her lap, "No. I'm… nauseated. Sometimes I throw up… and I'm sore." This time she answered slowly, keeping her voice down and glancing toward the door. He couldn't tell that time if she was lying or not, but he didn't have a good feeling about this. Soreness, sick stomach, crazy mood swings. She couldn't be… No. He'd only been gone for a couple of weeks and they'd only had sex once. Why didn't that comfort him at all? Was he horrified or excited? Neither, right now he was in shock. Sure he'd thought about this but he was thinking it would happen in a few years, when she didn't hate him and couldn't teach a child to hate him. He was too busy with Georgia to have a kid. Holy shit. He gripped his knees and tried to keep a straight face.

"Are you pregnant?" He blurted, and Blair's head snapped up instantly. She starred at him with wide, shocked eyes.

"No." She hissed immediately, looking offended that he'd even say something like that, "Why would you think that I was pregnant?"

"You're acting strange, and you're sick. It's possible that—" "No. No it isn't." She interrupted, but she didn't sound so angry this time, "I cannot have a child." A disgusted look passed over her face and she looked away from him. Was she in denial or was it something else? He wasn't sure, but he was almost let down. Bass ran a hand through his hair and stood up again.

He twisted the door handle and jerked it open. "Go and get me a medic, immediately." He barked at the guards. The tall female soldier to his left nodded and jogged toward the door, not wanting to suffer his wrath. The General took a deep breath and turned back toward Blair, who had closed her eyes and started to hum quietly. He hated how she could do this to him. Usually he was good at keeping his cool; seeing truth from lies but despite knowing her for over a month, Bass didn't know much about Blair. He knew that she could keep a secret and she liked to sing. She was loyal, intelligent, and she claimed that she wanted to die. That was the extent of his knowledge though. Hard to imagine that he could feel so strongly about someone he barely knew.

Bass stood tapping his foot anxiously as Blair continued to hum a slow, mournful tune. The doctor didn't even knock before the soldiers let her through the door. She was a middle aged woman, tall with thick bone structure and a slightly hunched back. Her brunette hair was pulled up into a tight bun and Bass could see streaks of grey starting to show through. She wiped her large hands on her uniform before sticking one out for him to shake, "Dr. Perwalski. What can I do for you sir?"

Reluctantly he took her hand (which was surprisingly strong) and shook it. He nodded his head towards Blair, who was still not looking at them. He'd never met anyone as good at ignoring people as Blair was. "Do you know what is wrong with her? Is she pregnant?" He demanded, but in a gentlemanly tone.

"No." Blair answered for the doctor. She finally opened her eyes to stare blankly at the two people before her, "I told you, I cannot have a child."

The doctor awkwardly cleared her throat, "I don't know about that Miss… but I don't think she is pregnant. If she was… the baby wouldn't have survived her injury." Bass clenched his jaw and went back to the chair beside her bed. He looked back at the doctor, wordlessly waiting for an explanation. "Oh. You didn't tell him dear?" Dr. Perwalski whispered, going over to the bed and pulling back the sheets. Bass barely heard Blair grumble about how she didn't want to be called dear, but didn't struggle as the other woman pulled up her shirt with careful hands.

She definitely wasn't pregnant, and she'd definitely lied to him. A large purple and yellow bruise extended from Blair's stomach, over to her left side. No wonder she had screamed when he pulled her around. Bass controlled his temper, despite feeling instantly enraged. What the hell happened?! How could someone let something like this happen to her? She had just as many guards as he did! It had to have been Charlotte. They'd left her unattended in here with the Matheson girl and Blair probably hadn't even put up a fight. He'd make sure she was punished for this, as well as the guards who had neglected to keep a sharp eye. He couldn't kill Charlie, not if he was ever going to use her to capture Rachel again, but he had no problems with having his men lop off her hands.

"The people that heard Miss Matheson shout for help came immediately, but they weren't fast enough to get the soldier off before he got in a good hit. Most likely it is just some bad bruising. There is definitely no breakage, but if you were trying to have a child sir… the damage to her gut would most likely terminate pregnancy. Have you experienced any bleeding?" She asked, turning her attention towards Blair, who said absolutely nothing, "You'll have to keep trying." The doctor explained, jerking her hands away as Blair went to slap them. The redhead quickly hid her damaged torso from his angry gaze.

"_What_ happened?" The General snarled, as though he'd asked the question a million times already and no one was giving him an answer. He could feel his control on his temper start to slip away. Why did everyone do this to him? People constantly beat around the bush, terrified of making him angry. What they didn't know was _that_ is what made him angrier than anything else. It felt like this was taking an eternity just to get a straight answer. What happened? It was an easy question and damn it if someone didn't answer him in the next five seconds he was going to take the gun from the holster in his belt and put a bullet through their brain. Blair frowned, her shapely red lips twisting in conflict, but she didn't say anything to him.

"She's may not remember sir, she gets confused sometimes." The doctor explained, but Bass could see it all over Blair's face; she wasn't lost or frightened like she'd been minutes ago. Now, she was purposefully not telling him something… but why? Dr. Perwalski continued to tell the story, "The story I was told by one of the guards is that a soldier came in to collect Miss Matheson after they heard some commotion. He said that he and his partner were surprised when, after days of silence, Blair started to berate his partner for no reason at all. Eventually, the partner became intolerant of her behavior and punched her in the stomach multiple times. The other guard would have stopped his partner, but Miss Matheson tried to get in on the fight. I've been monitoring her condition carefully. It seems to be nothing more than some bad bruising."

The General leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath to stabilize himself, "And these guards… they're where?"

"Um, well… I believe they were moved to a different station. I'm not sure where." The doctor replied casually.

Bass rubbed his forehead with one hand and nodded, with the other he made a perfunctory gesture for the doctor to leave. "You're dismissed." He said faintly, in order to drive home his point. The large woman nodded and attempted to straighten out her shoulders as she turned to leave the room. The door clicked shut behind her and Bass breathed out a long, frustrated sigh. He needed a drink… or a lot of drinks right now.

"Are you going to explain that?" He said, keeping his eyes closed. He didn't want to look at her right now. He was too angry with her for lying, too confused as to why she'd lie about something like that. She knew he would have them executed right? That he'd never let anyone lay a hand on her again? Screw that, he was never leaving her alone again. Not even his men could be trusted with something this important to him. "McKenna Blair!" He demanded suddenly, snapping loudly at her in his irritation. He focused his cold blue eyes onto hers and stared her down.

"What do you want me to say? I insulted him and he attacked me. That is all there is to the story." Blair paused for a second and rubbed her belly gently, "Are you going to kill them?"

"Why did you do it?" He said, not giving her the painfully obvious answer to her stupid question. Of course he was going to kill them, but why did she care? The only other person's death she'd ever shown interest in was Mrs. Hanes.

"He was on my nerv—"

"Stop. Just _stop _lying to me. For once in your life tell the _truth._" He snarled, slamming his hand against the chair in agitation.

Blair clenched and unclenched her jaw, "Fine… I'm not stupid. I see things. That man was going to rape her; he did rape her despite my efforts to distract him. I could see it in his eyes, the way he looked at her. I thought they would lock him up, perhaps even kill him for what he'd done to me, but they didn't." She paused and looked down at her lap, her voice lowering to a whisper, "He still raped her, nearly beat her to death too. I'm surprised she's already healed up so well."

The General gritted his teeth. So he'd finally figured her out. He'd thought about it for just a second after she had spared Mrs. Hanes and then again when she said she'd never been with a man before, but he'd brushed it off. She had a weakness for lovely women; women who had never done anything for her. Yet, she hated him, he could tell that she hated him, after all he'd given her these past few weeks. Who ever put Charlotte Matheson in here in the first place was a dead man. Had they fallen for each other in that time? Had they been in his house, having sex right under the nose of his guards?! Of course they had. She was a Matheson, and true to her family name, she was trying to take everything from him. Well, it wouldn't happen this time. This time he'd eliminate the problem before it could get any worse. He'd find some other way to get his hands on Rachel again. Especially now that he'd taken control of Georgia, he should be able to find her. Charlotte had been insurance, but the price he was paying to keep her alive was too damn high.

He stormed over to the door, "Bring me the Matheson girl! I want her in here now!" He wouldn't stand for this. He wouldn't lose the only thing he had! Bass paced frantically from one side of the room to the other, shaking furiously.

The door burst open minutes later, and the young blonde was tossed down by his feet by the guards, who immediately shut the door back without making any eye contact. Bass jerked his gun out of its holster and pulled back the hammer. Charlotte screamed in surprised and tried to crawl away but he grabbed a fistful of her hair.

"What on earth are you doing?" Blair barked in alarm, swinging her legs off of the bed and flinching in pain, but she stood anyway. Charlotte clenched her jaw and looked up at him bravely, waiting for him to pull the trigger.

"I didn't give you all of this," He gestured around the room with his gun, "So that you could screw her **behind my back**."

Blair looked disgusted and appalled. "You're out of your mind." She whispered, "What makes you think I'm having sex with her? That I even want to have sex with her?"

"You like women. Pretty women. It is one of the only things that you care about. You protected her; you protected the maid that tried to kill me. Its time you realized your loyalty lies with me. Not. Them."

"How in the hell do you expect me to be loyal to you?" Blair whispered, her hands began to tremble and she took a single step forward, "What makes you think you deserve my loyalty? You've tortured me, hit me, imprisoned me. That is not even mentioning the night that you… practically raped me."

Bass could see tears start to leak out of her eyes and the hand holding his gun wavered. He didn't want it to be like this. He didn't want to have to keep punishing her for such impertinence, especially since she was already hurt. What he wanted more than anything right now was for all of this to stop and for her to be with him… but he couldn't allow her to treat him so disrespectfully. Maybe one day, there would be peace and love in their home together, or at least tolerance, but today, she wanted to fight, and she sure as hell wasn't about to back down. How dare she call that night rape! She'd been kind of nervous, and he'd been a little rough, but they'd made an agreement. She'd said yes with her mouth, even if she hadn't said it with her body and mind. He refused to feel guilty for making her uphold her end of the bargain.

"You… agreed… to that. Don't _**ever**_ use that word again." He threatened her quietly. It was embarrassing to have to discuss this while holding a gun to Charlotte's head. His finger twitched anxiously on the trigger. Blair looked… wild. The look in her eyes was angry and panicked, her body was rigid and still as a stone. If he pushed her too much she may just have a break down, that is why he'd spoken so gently, despite his anger. In an attempt to keep her calm, he'd hear her out before blasting her little lover's brains all over the floor… but Charlotte Matheson was going to die today. "Let's keep things civilized… you don't talk to me like that McKenna Blair." He said sternly.

"My mom was right, you're disgusting." Charlotte snarled from her position by his feet, "You don't have to explain yourself to him Blair. I can take care of my—"

"_Enough_. Be quiet Charlie." Blair cut her off, sending a fierce glare in the blonde's direction. She must have seen how stiff his arm had gotten. He'd been a second away from killing Charlotte, especially after she'd called him disgusting. Blair face was starting to flush the more upset she became, irritated tear tracks rolled down her pale cheeks through and around her little freckles. Her attention turned back to him, "I agreed, but I didn't want you to do it! I had no idea what it would cost me. My dignity… my last few shred of my dignity. Surrendering myself to you like some sort of common street whore, and for what?" Blair stopped to laugh bitterly, and doing so lost what little control she had over her quivering body. She shuddered violently and fell to her knees, wincing in pain as she did. "You said you wanted the truth so badly… I didn't try to help Charlotte because she was pretty… I did it because I was afraid, yes, afraid. I was afraid for her like I was afraid for myself that night with you." Her voice broke, and a sob of desperation escaped her lips.

Bass was starting to panic, inwardly of course. As the seconds ticked on he regretted losing his temper more and more. McKenna was getting frantic. If she wasn't already having a full blown panic attack, she was going to soon. Plus, he wasn't too sure he wanted to keep going down this road. Sure, he had learned more about her in the last two minutes than he had in her entire two months of capture… but at what cost? That night had meant something to him; something very important. He'd seen it as their fresh start. The love making was just the beginning, followed by maids that tended to her every need, nice clothes, and a house in the country. He'd done all of that for her to prove that her life in a dungeon was over. She meant something to him now, she was _**all **_he had and _**everything**_ he wanted. He wasn't sure why… maybe it was desperation, or loneliness, that drove him to feel this way about her, but he wasn't sure he could just stand here and crush his hopes and desires like Miles had done that day at the power plant. He needed her now, and he needed her to know that.

"And the maid…" She snarled maliciously, speaking between her pitiful cries, "You don't even _want _to know about the maid." Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the young Matheson move toward Blair, and he shoved her onto her side with his foot, keeping her pinned there. His gun was still trained on her head, ready to pull the trigger… but he was slowly starting to believe Blair. Even if he didn't believe her, he was having his doubts about killing Charlotte. Such a violent sight might send McKenna into a frenzy at this point.

"Tell me the truth or I swear to God I'll kill her." He said, only half meaning it. His gut told him to stop pushing, to take a step back and slow down, just like it had the night they spent together… but his head told him they were too far into this to stop. He was so angry, so hurt and offended by her rejection, but he was also afraid for her. He was too emotional right now and he knew it. Bass could feel his insides boiling like hot water, any more pressure and steam may start shooting out his ears. "Why did you do it?" He snarled, pressing his foot harder into Charlotte's hip out of frustration. The blonde cried out and tried to hit him, but he barely felt it. His focus, his entire being, was focused on Blair. He wanted answers to questions that had been nagging him for months. Even if it hurt, even if it cost him dearly, even if he knew he shouldn't or didn't want to, he was going to push her until she gave them to him. Then, once it was all out in the open, he'd know enough about her to bend her to his will. And in the end she would love him. She would be everything he ever wanted even if he had to remake her into what he wanted. This was their real new start. After this he would tear down the bad, all of the cruelty and pain she'd endured in her life, all of the anger she had for him and anything else that stood in his way, and he would replace it with respect and love and loyalty. She would be more loyal to him than she'd ever been to his son. They'd have a family one day, and their children would respect and adore him just like their mother would. It would be perfect… but right now, they had to push through the pain. **"Tell me!" **He roared, causing Charlotte to start to swear at him and struggle, and Blair to scream and flinch in fear.

"I HATED HER! Is that what you wanted to know?! Why should she get what I want? Why shouldn't she have to suffer like I have?! For seven years I've done nothing but suffer! I know it wasn't her fault… but she had to pay. It was only fair after what he did to me!" She wailed, her voice was filled with agony and hate.

"What _who _did to you?" He demanded. Was she talking about Corporal Hanes? Had he touched her? The report said that he'd refused to torture her… but they had slept in the same tent… but she'd been a virgin when they had sex. What the hell was she talking about?

"Gregory Hanes! The horrible man! That filthy, disgusting coward. He was a traitor and a murderer. He took everything I EVER wanted!" She rambled on under her breath, saying a name he couldn't quite make out. She began to jerk her hands through her hair and ever so slightly rock herself back and forth. This was it. The defining moment. The moment he had promised her would come one day when she'd been brought in. He hadn't been meaning for it to happen this way, but it was what it was. A part of him, a huge part, wanted to wrap his arms around her and settle her down. He wanted to comfort her, and to keep her from going mad… but his pride and stubbornness wouldn't allow him to. Still, his heart broke for her.

The words his son wrote in that letter suddenly became very real to him. He understood what his son had meant by "There is something wrong with her. Legitimately."… She was sick; that was very clear to him now. When had it happened? And why? He supposed it didn't matter. It dawned on the general that even with all of his strength and power, there may only be so much he could do for her. He could _remake _her the way he wanted one day, but he wasn't sure he could ever _make_ her better… but did that really mean anything to him? No… because he was sick too. He was desperate and bitter and hurt. Maybe he wasn't out of his mind… but for the most part neither was she. What was important was how strongly he felt for her, how much he needed her. Without her, without something, he wasn't going to make it. He'd come unhinged. Bass forced himself to keep a straight face. It would all be ok after today. He'd stay by her, no matter what. For every ounce of loyalty he asked her to give him, he'd give it back tenfold. He loved her… or at least that was the closest thing to what he felt.

Bass stepped off of Charlotte and pulled her to her feet. Blair didn't notice. She was whispering frantically under her breath and shaking her head. He still couldn't make out what name she kept repeating. Sebastian waved a hand for one of the guards posted at the still-open door to restrain the Matheson girl, who looked sad and shocked. He almost wondered just how much Blair had told her, but then ignored it, knowing that wasn't important right now.

"Go and get a sedative." He commanded the other guard quietly, keeping his voice even and low. This was going to get worse before it got better, he needed to be prepared. Bass turned on his heel and silently made his way over to Blair, holstering his gun as he kneeled before her. McKenna jerked backwards violently and looked up at him ferociously.

"She's GONE. She's gone, gone, gone and I'll—I'll never ever get her back. I _**loved **_her. I loved her and he killed her! He KILLED her. You don't understand how much I hated him. I've lived off nothing but my love for my family and my hatred for him… because I want to die!" Bass winced at the power of her voice. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, shocking him completely. He wasn't sure he really wanted to talk about her ex-lover. He wanted her to focus on him and love him. Jealousy reared its ugly head inside of him, but he smothered it out of concern. "Isadora… I loved Isa. You just don't understand!"

"You really did kill him." Bass mumbled, but Blair heard and nodded her head wildly.

"Not on purpose. No, I had a plan. He ruined my plan!" She shouted, gripping his arms with her shaking hands, "You were going to kill him for me. Yes! YES you were! I knew you would. Because, because I was going to tell you that he—he tried to kill your son. Cause SJ looks like you. Then you'd think, because everyone says you're pariniod… you'd think that he tried to kill you and you'd kill him for it. Yes! That was plan A. If plan A didn't work, I was going to tell you," She laughed like a crazy person and leaned in closer like she was telling him a secret, "I was going to tell you that I'd tell you where SJ was, if you killed him. Then you'd kill me when you found out I lied! BUT—but he messed up the plan."

"He shot himself." Bass confirmed, making Blair nod again and burst back into tears.

"The truth is I hated him with EVERY fiber of my being, and when I found out he had a wife, I hated her too. Because HE HAD what he STOLE FROM ME!" She shrieked, backing away from him and burying her face in her hands. "I reminded him of that," She sobbed, shaking her head, "I reminded him what he did by singing the same song that I sang the night that he found us… And—and I saw how afraid he was, so I… I drove him to it! I drove him to put that bullet in his head. It was PERFECT. It was better than if you'd have done it cause I—I got to see it! BOOM! Boom and he was dead. Brains splattered about the tent."

Bass temporarily tuned her out as a soldier tapped his shoulder and handed him a syringe, partially filled with a clear liquid. Blair was starting to hyper ventilate. It was getting harder for her to breathe through her frantic monologue. This was all too much for him to process right now. There were so many racing thoughts and emotions flowing through him… but the primary one was fear. He was afraid that she'd hurt herself, or him if she didn't settle down soon. He handed his gun to the guard, just in case she surprised him and dove for it. By now he doubted she was lucid enough to use it, she was more or less rambling to herself, but still.

"Perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. It all was going good! The only problem was that you were supposed to kill ME and I hate you!" She raised her head from her hands to glare at him, and Bass reached out to grab her arm. She began to scream madly and struggle as he pulled her close to him. Apparently the guard had not removed Charlotte from the room, and he could hear her shouting at Blair, telling her to stop and settle down. "I hate you for making me live when all I want in this world is to die. My family doesn't need me and the woman I love is dead, so hate me back for what I've told you. Hate me back and turn that gun on **me**!" She howled. Bass shushed her gently, forcing himself to remain calm. He quickly switched his grasp from her arm to her hair, pulling it back and exposing her neck to him. Feeling for a vein in her arm would have been impossible. He brought the needle to her neck and stabbed through the flesh, depressing the plunger in one swift motion. In seconds her struggles became weak and sluggish, and then she collapsed onto him.

Bass took a deep breath to calm his nerves and lifted her into his arms. "Take Miss Matheson back to her room please." He ordered, laying Blair back into bed. Charlotte protested, of course, but he wasn't listening to her. The soldier dragged her out of the room and closed the door, finally leaving him alone with Blair. He ran a hand through his hair, bending to take off his boots, followed by his outer jacket, and then laid down beside Blair in the bed. His arms wrapped around her possessively and he pulled her close against him, trying to dispel his worries. He needed her, he loved her… but what the hell was he going to do with her?

* * *

"It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane."  
― Philip K. Dick

* * *

**Alright, soooo yeah. This was long as shit. Then end is a little ramble-y but I had to rewrite it because it was choppy. I actually like the way it drones on a bit, reiterating my point. With this chapter, and the next one, I am trying to drive home a point about Blair and that is that she is extremely unwell. And like any unwell person, the more stress they are under and the more time they're under it, the worse they will get. Blair is functioning, she isn't like a lunatic but she is definitely sick. It is strange, I explain it better in the story than out. But I am a little sick of the Bass/OC or even cannon character stories where the protagonist is tough/brave, or a coward. Blair is neither of those things. I'm not saying they're bad stories, by a long shot I love most of them, but I wanted to write something different. I find madness a particularly interesting subject, and it is fun to walk that line with Blair. She's has totally snapped in some areas, but in others she is almost normal.**

On a different note, this was kind of the emotional breaking point for everyone. Bass' jealousy drove him to almost kill Charlie, he admits that he "loves" Blair, and by the end of the chapter he is resigned to keep her around out of desperation. So he is losing it too but honestly I think he lost it the day Miles betrayed him, maybe even before that. The story is almost over, only a couple, or possibly a few more chapters. So for people who think "why the hell isn't Blair doing anything about this?" That is about to change.


End file.
